


signal flare

by WonderAss



Series: golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone [4]
Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Abusive Parents, Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Bigotry & Prejudice, Character Study, Depression, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Jaggie - Freeform, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, references to, survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 133,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: Bottle up the pain too long, it'll overflow. Jackson is committed to a psychiatric ward after one meltdown too many, medical career in jeopardy and the Avery name dragged through the mud. While taking care of Meredith's children during her jail sentence, Maggie is given one of the greatest opportunities of her medical career...a monumental feat of technology she doesn't trust herself to pull off after failing to save those she cared about.They both have to figure out what it is they want out of this brief life: what should be let go and what should be fought for.
Relationships: Jackson Avery/Margaret "Maggie" Pierce
Series: golden spun, sunk so deep and we're undone [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1547635
Comments: 117
Kudos: 82





	1. seattle sunlight

**Song Inspiration:** "Stuff" by Roses Gabor

*

_inner days, and no one_

_found out from you_

_it could be easy_

_like check one, check two_

* * *

_Loss is automatically thought of as a negative thing. It goes against the American dream, after all. 'More is more', as the philosophy goes. Nice and simple._

_Except when it comes to losing a tumor. Losing a bad train of thought. Losing someone you cared about that wasn't actually all that good for you. A loss isn't automatically bad, no more than a gain is automatically good. Knowing the difference is key to a healthy life, but it's easier said than done._

_Too many people don't know what to keep and what to lose._

* * *

Checking the draft he wrote on redistributing five percent of marketing funds toward improving the hospital's bathroom conditions. Check.

Leaving a message on April's phone to postpone Harriet's playdate until next week (and drafting out a rebuttal for the inevitable argument). Check.

Picking out a color-appropriate suit for the charity gala. Almost done.

Twenty-four suits in his closet (or was it twenty-five) and there's always a reason to get another. Losing a few pounds these past few weeks might mean another trip to the tailor, too. He starts punching another note to swing by when the bodies around him suddenly stop shuffling and stand stiffly to attention. That's his cue. Jackson files away the tab (cherry red is probably best, but he _might_ just play it safe with a slate-grey) and looks up. Webber is looking ready to peel apart at the seams, but his low voice fills the lobby as surely as it ever does.

"Good morning everyone. How're you all doing?" He starts, offering a tired, yet broad smile for the room at large. The sea of bodies shuffles and mutters and nods, collectively figuring out who should answer first. Schmitt, permanently as awkward as a shoe with a rock in it, shoots up a hand. Webber blinks at him.

"Uh...go ahead, Schmitt."

"I really appreciate you taking the time to meet with us, sir."

Jackson sighs. At least _someone_ was happy to be here.

"...Thank you. Glad to hear it." Webber clears his throat and nods. "Well. We have places to be and patients to see, so I'll try to keep this brief. As you all saw in the e-mail, the changes we've been working on for Grey-Sloan have finally gone into effect. First things first, does everyone have their new key card on hand?"

Shuffle. Mutter. Rustle. A hundred cards flash into the air. Jackson tugs out his and holds it up. Webber casts a critical eye across the crowd.

"Good, good. Keep those close at hand. The most noticeable change is that we're upgrading the locks on the doors. Due to safety concerns the board has decided to boost a few of the security settings, from additional security guards to a new digital lock that's supposed to..." He trails off as he struggles to find the right word, spinning a hand. "...reduce the probability of a break-in by point eight percent or something."

Point _eighteen_ percent, but whatever. It's the definition of reinventing the wheel. The consensus vote had been all for it, when it was a useless idea from the start. The hospital may have a healthy budget _now_ , but it was one that could go belly-up overnight. All it took was _one_ fire. _One_ plane crash. _One_ earthquake. Hell, a piece of paper signed by old men whose last encounter in the hospital was for dick pills. The hospital has been through enough tragedies to know what efforts actually made the biggest difference. Instead, they now have the biggest inconvenience.

"If you don't mind, show a little extra decorum to the new guards. Introduce yourselves when you're able, say hello, all that. They're just as much a part of the hospital as any doctor or nurse."

It's not the first time he's thought of shuffling the leftovers of that inheritance money toward other (smarter) initiatives. If the rest of the board actually _listens_ to what's coming out of his mouth, that is, since every breath he takes is passed through the grapevine. He pushes too hard, he's abusing his power. He doesn't push hard enough, he doesn't give a shit about his position. Jackson feels the beginnings of a stress headache throbbing behind his eyelids, and digging a thumb into his temple barely helps. ...He really shouldn't be complaining. Being a virtual figurehead on the board of directors may be hell, but it was a very important, very _prestigious_ hell.

"Any questions or concerns so far?"

Webber tries to make eye contact, to urge him into providing commentary or approval. Jackson pretends to find the back of Helm's blonde head fascinating.

"...So. Make sure you carry your cards with you at all times, even if you're sure you don't need it. These are for _all_ the doors in the hospital, not just the ORs. Remember your card's passcode, too, just in case. You can punch them into the little pads and get the same access. We've...had a few _too_ many incidents of patients being locked in their rooms or doctors being unable to get out in time for their next appointment." Webber winces sympathetically. "Apologies in advance."

Tens of thousands of dollars for an advance apology. Brilliant. Webber casts another glance his way. Another pause. Checking his watch would be too obvious. Checking his phone would be too rude. Jackson glances up and over to the clock by the receptionist's desk, the urge to move and _work_ itching in his knees.

"...All right. So. This heightened security, as you've already seen logging in, is coinciding with our new medical software. This place has been through quite a lot these past few years and the _board_..." He clears his throat meaningfully. Jackson itches his nose. "...would rather not wait for the worst to happen, whether it's a disaster or just a fumble on the data sheet. If you have any questions or concerns later, we have little sheets by the receptionist desk you can fill out. They can be anonymous or signed, whichever. The developers want as much feedback as possible."

So much for trying to keep things brief. He's tempted to break his jealous wall of silence and speak up, anyway, just so they can _get a move on_ and get the ball rolling on the inevitable disaster that's forever bound to happen under Grey-Sloan's roof. Webber outright glares at him now, and this time Jackson looks him dead in the eye. ' _Come on. While we're still breathing_ '.

"Working at Pac North has given me a...whole new perspective on the _necessity_ for modern technology, even if it seems like a pain in the ass." This is definitely directed at him, even as Webber breaks eye contact and is gesturing to the crowd again. "If it means a few extra minutes saved for all of you, and thus your patients, then it's worth every penny. Every minute counts on the operating table. Ideally, Grey-Sloan and Pac North will be on the same page sooner rather than later." He chuckles drily. "Surprisingly, the most difficult part has just been coming up with a good name."

Schmitt raises his hand again (like he's in _grade school_ , what-) for another question, this time about how a merger and the subsequent new workers will affect scheduling. Jackson rubs at his jaw. Well, Webber's not wrong about that. Not wrong at all. Every minute counts, yes...and every single one adds up to a big, fat, monumental _zero_.

_"Jackson, you scared the hell out of me."_

_"Jackson, who's going to operate on Dr. Shepherd?"_

_"Jackson, clamp the hilum so you can get control of the hemorrhage so I can get better visualization. Clamp the hilum so I can **see**."_

_"Jackson-"_

"Dr. Jackson _Avery_."

Jackson blinks and looks up to a sea of bod-...heads. Currently turned around and watching him with two hundred bulging, confused eyes.

"...What?"

Webber slowly lifts two very tired, very grey eyebrows up to the ceiling.

"I...asked if you had anything to add before we wrap things up."

Add...to what? What were they talking about? ...Oh. Right, the...the new locks and new rules and new merger. Jackson flashes a smile.

"Nope. You...pretty much said it all."

Schmitt rubs the back of his head and mumbles something under his breath. Helm elbows him in the side. Webber stares at him a moment longer, then dismisses the group with a firm nod, the hovering warmth dissipating into the familiar sterile cold as everyone shuffles off to their duty. Jackson takes what feels like the first full breath in years and walks over to the board to review the schedule, letting the sounds of the hospital wash over him. Rubber shoes squeaking on clean floors. Mutters of nurses occasionally sliced through with a distant groan of pain. Blessed sanity in a sterilized package.

His phone buzzes. It's a text from Vic, first he's heard from her since the split. ...Not now. Jackson stuffs his cell back in his pocket, glancing again at his patient's chart for any last-minute changes. None, so far as he can see. Good. At least _one_ thing was going smoothly-

"Jackson." Webber's placid frown floats into his periphery, arms crossed in his usual knot. "What's going on this morning?"

Jackson gestures to the schedule.

"Well, I got a new patient in with some pretty severe second and third-degree burns, then a consultation on a sleep apnea patient who-"

"I mean with _you_."

No stone left unturned. Jackson resists the urge to rub his temples again.

"Just...tired. That's all."

"Too tired to say two sentences to your co-workers?" Webber drawls out the last syllable, as if it's impossible to believe him _less_. "Forgive me if I find that strange."

Jesus Christ. He sounds exactly like Catherine. It was only a matter of time, and he should be impressed it took this long, really.

"You and Mom both seem pretty weirded out by my sleep schedule."

"Ever thought to assume it's because we...care about you?"

No. He can't deal with this today. Maybe tomorrow night, when he had a glass of merlot in one hand and an even bigger glass of his mother's omnipresent disapproval in the other. When he had a thousand cameras flashing in his face and making him blink stars well after he's collapsed into bed, the leftover ricochet keeping his head too noisy for anything else. Not today. Not _now_. Jackson holds up his tablet _and_ key card, in a double-whammy of minor sincerity.

"Look, that's not what I meant. I'm doing my job. I'm here. Tired, but here." He waves the card. "What more do you want?"

"I don't know...for one of the board members to stop fidgeting like a teenager on the way to prom and do a little to boost morale? To pay attention and not treat another merger, another _improvement_ , with such visible disinterest?" Webber shakes his head slowly, brows crinkling into a concerned bundle. "You used to be good at these sort of speeches, Jackson. Really damn good, honestly. Where'd that go?"

"To the speeches I need to give my _patients?_ Our residents and interns are inexperienced, not children." Jackson taps the screen off and hefts it under his arm. "Can't imagine even the best speeches will help if the entire hospital locks in on itself and traps them in while trying to monitor a patient's IV, though." He sniffs the chill from his nose, scratches at his jaw. Sometimes he really hates how it smells here. Antiseptic. Blood. Wheezes of air that have no meaning. "Traps them in and they have to nearly break a person's ribs to keep their heart pumping."

For a moment Webber is quiet. Deliberating. The man tilts his head at a diagonal angle, as if trying to see _and_ hear him better.

"...Are you nervous you'll be locked in?"

Jackson rolls his jaw.

"Sir, if you don't mind, I have a patient that needs an on-boarding for a very time-consuming and painful procedure. I get you have this compulsion to be everyone's father, but for what it's worth, it's the actually the _last_ thing I need right now."

Webber leans back a little, pursing his lips in a marriage between considering and acquiescing. He bobs his head in an internal nod. Agreeing to a conversation within.

"...Okay." He says, and already it's clear that's not the end of it. "I'm going to be frank, then. You've made a _lot_ of shitty decisions these past few months. So many I've started to lose count. But you're right. I'm not your father. I'm not even your stepfather. So wrangling you and your toxic, self-centered crap into someone remotely resembling a functioning human being isn't my job. Not as your boss, not as Catherine's husband. So _as_ your boss, get your shit together before I put you on mandated leave and hire a temporary replacement. As Catherine's _husband_ , she wants to know if we should do lobster or crab for the gala."

Jackson slowly rubs his jaw.

"...Crab."

"Got it." His footsteps, and voice, fade into the hospital's hubbub. "Get to work, Dr. Avery."

Jackson turns on one heel and stalks down the hall.

He side-steps an eager resident on his way to the third floor, turning on his tablet again and shuffling through the overview (though it's probably branded onto his _brain_ by now). Malani Patel. Nineteen years old and the victim of a car accident earlier this morning. She came out with minor scrapes and a mild concussion, with one major exception: her arms and hands. She sustained severe third-degree burns traveling all the way up to her elbows and will need several skin grafts. Returning her mobility will be an additional challenge, with three of her fingers burned down to the muscle and likely needing a transfer. Her parents, Sai and Anika Patel, are present today.

The door's scanner stares him down, an ugly little black box jutting through the brown like a cancer mole. Jackson pulls out his key card, waves it. The red light turns green with a sharp _blip_. He reaches for the door handle...then pauses. He closes his eyes, breathes in _deep_ through his nose and holds until his lungs start to burn. One. Two. Three. Show time.

"Hey, everyone."

The patient's parents stand up so swift and coordinated it could've been planned. Her mother looks like someone he'd see at a gala, a little overdressed for a hospital setting in a flowing red blouse and glittering red earrings that pop against her dark hair. The father's in a similar boat, business casual with a side-part and a jacket folded neatly over one arm. Malani is the picture of suburban sweetness, despite the heavy bandages on her arms and pain pinching her brow. Upper middle-class, educated first-generation immigrants with a firm grip on the first impression. Jackson flashes a smile and holds out a hand.

"Sai and Anika Patel. It's nice to meet you both." They have a very firm grip. Tight enough to speak of respect and desperation both. "I'm Dr. Avery and I'm going to be leading the surgery on your daughter."

"We need to know if she'll be able to play." Anika says, immediately. Jackson blinks politely.

"Play what?"

"Violin. She's been playing since she was four." Her accent is faint. He could miss it if he weren't focusing. "Won five regional awards and has competed internationally. I understand fixing the burns is the biggest priority, but...we just need some assurances."

...Ah. They were those kinds of parents. Jackson glances down at his tablet unnecessarily, sparing a quiet second to hear the protest from the daughter. Something frustrated or embarrassed or both. It doesn't come. Malani is utterly still, staring ahead as polite and bland as a statue. He glances between them all, then continues.

"Ideally, that's something I'll be able to know for sure after I take a deeper look. From what we've seen, general mobility is all but guaranteed. Something as subtle as a _violin_ , though...I'm not sure yet." Jackson purses his mouth sympathetically when their expressions shift from tentative hope to crestfallen. "Right now I'm going to show you an overview of what the next month and a half is going to look like. The sooner we get started..." He spares an ironic thought for Webber. "...the better."

The father nods, the flicker of concern pulled into an impassive elegance he's _all_ too familiar with. His accent is stronger, melodic.

"I understand." Then, unsurprisingly: "Do you have children, Mr. Avery?"

Two. One. His little princess and his reason for waking up to a slate ceiling and not closing his eyes again. Jackson reaches for his wallet and flips out a photo, the one from her third birthday party at Disneyworld.

"A daughter." He brushes his thumb along her chubby cheek, where she'd gotten too enthusiastic with the cake and smudged blue frosting down to her chin. "Harriet."

***

" _I looked, I looked under the...the bed and the...yeah, I looked. She's not anywhere._ "

"How about in the car?"

" _Mommy said she's not **there** , either!_"

Jackson leans up from the couch, the haze of disjointed toddler babble sharpening with sudden awareness. Oh, damn. Out of all the things to lose, to _really_ lose, it had to be _that_ Barbie. It's a limited-edition model based off Myra Adele Logan, no less, because he figured she might grow old enough to care about that sort of thing one day. For now, Myra was named _Moana_ and she wasn't a surgeon, but some sort of mutant hybrid between a general doctor, astronaut and fairy. He puts on a smile and tries to capture his daughter's gaze through the screen, shaky as it is with her tendency to carry the phone with her.

"Hey. Sweetheart, can you pause for a moment? _Harriet Kepner-Avery_." The screen settles. Two big, watery brown eyes peer in. "Listen. I'm sure you just misplaced her."

" _I put her in my backpack before school._ " There's a line of snot running over her lip. " _I really love her._ "

"I know. I love her, too. Just think about it, did you take her out in class?"

" _Y-Yeah. Melanie wanted to play with her._ "

Ah, the mundane mysteries of the modern father. Jackson takes a quick bite of his noodles (starting to get cold, he'll have to hurry up and finish them before they turn into on-the-spot leftovers-), then tilts the screen when it abruptly goes dark. Harriet's brought the phone beneath the bed.

" _I don't know...I can't see her..._ " Rustling scratches up her audio. She's starting to cry again. " _Daddy, she's not under my bed..._ "

"Sweetheart, sweetheart. Pause for a moment." He waits for the rustling to die down. "Did you ask Melanie for the Barbie back?"

Harriet goes quiet, the only sound carrying over the phone now a sloppy sniffle. Just like that, the only thing he wants in the world is a tissue and a spare moment to wipe her nose off. It's been a damn minute since he's been able to hold her and pat away those sticky tears.

" _Um...I dunno._ "

"Okay. How about this. Go ask Mom to give Melanie's parents a call. See if they can find the doll at their house, okay?"

Harriet wants her doll more than she wants to cry, because she sets the phone down and scampers off. He settles back and starts digging into his noodles with renewed gusto, only to stop mid-bite at a sharp knock on the door. It's a hop-skip he's glad his daughter's not there to witness as he dodges old boxes and bags, eventually landing on the mat and tugging the door open. ...It's Vic. Shivering from the cold downstairs and looking completely windblown. Jackson looks over her shoulder (nobody), then back to her. There are flecks of white in her hair. Seattle snow isn't hitting _yet_ , but it's working itself up in the evening's liminal hours.

"...Hey." He says, after she makes no move to speak. The woman smiles awkwardly, bouncing in place to keep up her body heat.

"Sorry to show up like this, out of the blue. I think I forgot my hoodie here?" She huffs into her hands. Her nose is starting to pink. "I tried to text you, but..."

Jackson smiles.

"I'll find it."

If he invites her in, he won't want her to leave. If he doesn't want her to leave, he'll have to figure out why he _wanted_ her gone in the first place. Not yet. Not now. Jackson peers beneath one of the trash bags, digs beneath the couch cushions, looks in the kitchen cupboards (because why not). He eventually finds the houndstooth hoodie beneath his bed, because it couldn't have been anywhere else.

"Phew, thank God." Vic tugs it on and ruffles snow out of her curls. "It's fleece-lined and I'm too lazy to get another."

"Right."

"Um, thanks. Sorry to bother you."

Then she's jogging back down the hallway toward the entrance, _long_ gone before he can muster up so much as a stale well-wishing. Jackson slowly shuts the door, staring at the flecks of early snow sticking to the mat, and scrubs at his stubble until it burns beneath his nails. The itch has gotten worse lately. Something under his skin, crawling and nipping. He has too much energy. Energy that goes nowhere. Those nerves have the common decency to move him back to the living room, away from the mussed bed and dirty clothes.

Maggie's scent faded in full two weeks in. Now the remains of Vic are outside with the frost.

When he returns to the couch Harriet is squalling for him, breath blurring the camera lens.

" _Daddy! Daddy, Mommy called Melanie and Melanie took my doll and it's at her house. I can't get her now but she said she'll be bringing her to school. You can find anything._ "

Jackson smiles, slumps down and takes another bite of takeout. It's cold.

"'Course, sweetheart."

" _When can I come visit over there? I wanna show you my new fort._ "

Jackson scratches his jawline.

"I'm not sure. Soon. Real soon."

Harriet twiddles her fingers.

" _You said real soon last time._ "

It's not that he doesn't want to. It's not that at all. The right words for children are always the simplest ones, yet they stick to his tongue, refusing to budge. A shock of orange hair dips into the frame, then, April's thin frown following and calculated down to the line. Just soft enough not to be noticed by Harriet, just firm enough to needle his hackles up.

" _Hey, there, sweetheart. Come with me, Dad needs to get to bed. He's got a lot to attend to this week._ " Her smile is a blink-and-miss-it. " _So much so he can't even visit us, apparently._ "

Then the screen goes black, and he's alone.

***

Malani's parents aren't present for the first round of treatment. It's for the best. They need to overcome the patient-doctor hurdle together, ideally with less fussing and micromanaging.

Jackson gulps down the rest of his drip (the caffeine jitters are _finally_ starting to take), then hits his back against the wall to stare at the ceiling and hum a Michael Jackson tune. It's an effective bracing for their first debriding session. He's done more than he can _count_ , but lately they've gotten, for lack of a better word, under his skin. It's probably a sign he needs to take another leave and put a little distance in-between him and the hospital, as much as it would kill him to admit Webber had a point. For now, Michael remains a pitch perfect ingredient for drowning out the wrong kind of screams.

"Morning, Malani."

Malani's hair is in a braid over one shoulder, her glasses off to the side and dark gaze properly vacant. Looks like the painkillers are kicking in. She's nearsighted, so Jackson puts a smile in his voice as he shuts the door behind him. It lets out a low _blip_ : locked.

"...So." He stares at the red light a moment longer, then turns and checks her IV, then heart monitor. "How are we feeling today?"

"Cold." She murmurs, starting to raise one hand, then stopping herself. "Kind of...weird. Numb-y."

"That's perfectly normal." He assures. They've already done the overview, but sometimes a little repeat of the basics put patients at ease. "We'd offer you more to numb the pain, but burns aren't _quite_ like cuts or broken bones. The nerves are destroyed, which means they react in unpredictable ways. In order to promote healing, we have to do what is known as debriding. This removes all the dead skin and tissue to allow new skin to grow. It's a simple enough process. Your third-degree burns will actually be the least trouble, but your second-degree ones will be a little tougher."

"Okay." She says, voice small and posture a touch too stiff for the anesthesia. He might need to pull out the big guns.

"Think of it like this..." Jackson takes position by the bed and leans forward. "Ever gotten a tattoo before?"

"No. My parents wouldn't have allowed it."

"Mm. Yeah, they don't seem like the type. How about...broken a bone?"

"No. I spend a lot of time inside." She considers her words as if they're in front of her, eyes scanning back and forth across the bed. " _Spent_ , I should say."

He's running low on metaphors. He could always reference a monthly period, but he's not sure whether or not she has an average one compared to other cis women, and asking for the basics on _that_ could seem out-of-place. Malani already has a few methods for collecting herself, it seems. She lifts her chin and closes her eyes, as if drawing upon an unseen energy, then opens them again and turns to him. Scared and resolute.

"This isn't as scary as being in a car crash." There's a breath of a chuckle, crushed somewhere between the words. "I think I'm about as ready as I'll ever be."

An unconscious smile spreads on his face. She's got one hell of a spine for someone who didn't get out much. Jackson double-checks to make sure everything's in place, then snaps on his gloves. He picks up his scapel, leans forward-

" _Wait_." Malani takes in a shuddering breath. "Um. I'm sorry. May I have another second, please. I'm..."

-and leans back again. Slow and steady, now.

"Here. If it helps, let's talk about something to get your mind off it." Jackson sets the tool down. "What do you do for fun, Malani?"

"I play."

"Yeah, five regionals _and_ internationals. That's honestly amazing. My daughter takes piano classes, more for...general enrichment than anything. She just wants to play outside, though." Malani doesn't react to this, staring-and-not-staring his way. It could be the medicine. Could be the lack of glasses. "Anything else you like to do?"

"I'd love to travel."

Jackson tilts his head. Interesting phrasing, that. He glances down at her arms, the automatic checklist of his mind filing in the wistful note in her voice for future reference, right alongside the least painful starting point. Her fingers are the most _and_ least amount of work, by both surface area and how much came off. The left pinky he might not be able to save, though he'll give his damndest before giving the family a statement.

"What were you humming earlier?" Malani asks. Jackson looks back up.

"Hm? Oh, 'Beat It'. Michael Jackson."

"...Oh." Malani sits up a little, still careful not to move her arms. "I _love_ Michael Jackson."

"Yeah? Here. Tell you what." Jackson tugs off his gloves and tosses them into the bin. "Let me go see if I can't give you a little more pain medication, then I'll turn some on and we can listen to his greatest hits. I'll tell you about the thriller jacket I wore in elementary, back when I thought I'd be anything other than a doctor."

A slow, shy smile spreads across her face. She looks like an entirely different person.

"I'd like that."

Ah, that man continues to be the great equalizer. Jackson checks his phone (text from Mom, text from Bailey-), then stuffs it away and wiggles the doorknob. ...Right. He sighs and pulls out his key card. Damn wheel, being reinvented in real time. He waves it in front of the scanner, scowling at the red light. It doesn't change. Another wave, slower this time. More nothing. A crawling cold seeps through his veins.

"What the hell." He mutters. The sheets of the bed rustle.

"Did you say something?"

It's not a problem. Not a problem at all. He's been locked in before. Locked in with a man fully armed and planning on taking everyone in the nearest one hundred yard radius down with him. Locked in with a patient facing cardiac arrest while a dozen doctors stared helplessly at him through glass. Locked in a hyperbaric chamber with a sweet woman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time to indirectly save the wrong _man_. He's been locked in before, with the world's best _technology_ before. He still got out. He still got out. Jackson chews on his tongue, the texture gone dry and coarse.

"I still got out."

"Dr. Avery?"

"I got out. I'll...I'll get us _out_."

Another wave. More nothing. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_. The card digs a merciless stripe into the meat of his palm. Jackson leans his other hand on the door, hunches his shoulders and tries to breathe through the tinny drone building in his ears. One more time. One more time. One more time. He waves it, holds it, waits. The red turns green. A responding _blip_ , sweeter than he's heard it, and a _click_.

"...Are you okay?" Malani is polite as ever, despite the confusion dripping from each syllable. "Are we locked in?"

"No. No, no, we're not locked in. I'm...going to have a word with the board of directors." He nods, more to himself, standing up straight and wiping his forehead, then beneath his nose. "I'll be back in a minute."

The hospital hubbub is a muffled clatter of aluminum on cotton. Someone says something to him, sounds that glance off his ears. The static'll fade in a little bit. He needs to avoid casual conversation, look too busy for it. Jackson glances at the feedback sheets when he passes by the receptionist desk. One's a glowing review with several typos crossed out (Schmitt's). One's a little more nuanced, with a reference to Meredith Grey (Helm's). He wants to write **fuck this just listen to me** in bold red Sharpie on all of them. He doesn't.

He writes a quick note concerning the door's lagging response, then goes to his locker and grabs his cell phone charger. He plays Michael Jackson on his phone and talks about the state of pop music today as he works on Malani's right arm first, where she temporary breaks out of her pain fugue to show a passion that clearly doesn't get enough airtime.

The day flickers from cotton static to a pleasant blur that spins the clock. Malani Patel's first debriding session, check. Sleep apnea on-boarding discussion, check. Follow-up for the board, check.

After work Jackson visits his tailor and goes for the slate-grey, with merle shoes and a silvery tie. The charity gala is an impressive sight for something apparently thrown together last-minute (though his mother isn't happy about the color he chose). He regurgitates the right soundbites to microphones and plastic smiles, tries some of the crab and washes it down with wine. He goes home, tears off his suit and drinks a little more, until the room turns upside down and shakes out the worries of the day. He realizes too late he drank too much, because he hears people that aren't there and feels things that used to be correct months ago.

He nearly trips on his way to bed. Barely tugs off his tie before slumping over. Maggie's number blinks in the dark for too long, with that photo he took when she fell asleep on his couch with her hair over her eyes. Jackson surrenders a sloppy prayer that he forgets the second it hits the air, then falls into the blur into the black.

***

" _She wants to sit down with the board later this week. The pediatrics division at Grey-Sloan has taken a few too many hits for her liking and she said she wants to offer her expertise. Said Seattle's growing population is going to make sure this demand doesn't get any easier._ "

"The blonde one?"

" _...The **redhead**. Jackson, just how much did you drink?_"

"A glass of the fifty-five year-old pinot grigio and another glass of the cheap pinot noir someone tried to pass off as a century piece."

" _Well, do me a favor and subtract one of those from the next event, because half the people I talked to said you were the sexiest zombie they've ever seen._ "

"Well, there's your headline for the next three days."

" _I'm being serious._ "

When isn't she? Jackson tells her he's gotta go, double-checks his sneakers, and runs.

The city smudges by, green and yellow and blue in a blur that never untangles. The exhaustion is starting to hit a chilly pitch, the kind where every step feels jagged and the fuzziness lingers in the corners of his eyes no matter how hard he blinks. Sleeping at home isn't an option anymore. Sleeping at the hospital never gave him enough REM (and wasn't always available, with all the horny interns). No matter where he found himself, and no matter how much he spent, there wasn't a way to take a break from his own life without drinking himself stupid.

Sleep apnea follow-up, check. Response to April's message (and deleting the middle finger she texted), check. Morning jog, in-progress. When in doubt, swap blood for coffee.

Jackson crosses the street and up the short hill to the local coffee stand he and Ben used to frequent. It feels like a year ago, except the baristas recognize him instantly and chirp out a familiar greeting. Seattle remains a cluttered cage. Its bars are more stark than ever, he realizes distantly when he takes his spot in the growing line and spots Maggie and Amelia by the deli stand across the street.

Maggie's hair is in a ponytail today. Paired with black leggings and a long pink sweater, the kind more and more women are turning to these days and he's starting to appreciate. She and Amelia are both off work, it seems, her sister's baby bump prominent under her own long top. There will be another addition to the massive Grey family in a month and a half, at the _very_ most. A flock of gulls screech above, kicked up by some disturbance or another, and Seattle closes in. Just yesterday it felt like he was eating cereal next to April and Alex, working through a hangover and discussing the minor details of a ridiculous party.

For a second he loves this city so hard it hurts, right before hating it more than he's ever hated anything.

"What can I get you, Dr. Avery?"

"Americano, two extra shots, please."

Jackson leans back on his heels. With the pull of a magnet his gaze drifts to the two women chattering down the sidewalk, framed into a picture by the cold Seattle sunlight.

Maggie looks excited _and_ exhausted. She's too far away for him to even attempt reading her lips, but he can see her spelling out the words, flapping hands and glowing eyes. Something big has happened. Jackson rubs at his jaw. Did anyone mention anything at the hospital? He doesn't think so, but then _again_ , he was completely wrapped up with Malani, her family, catching up with networking events. There was some hubbub about rechargeable hearts, right, but what _kind_ of hubbub, he's not sure.

Amelia pulls a face. Maggie tosses her head back, smile twinkling. Jackson scratches a stubborn itch on his chin, rubs at the stubble there. It's good she can fall into her work again. It was only a matter of time. A matter of time until she remembered surgery or innovation was infinitely more worthwhile than _any_ connection they forged. The camping trip made it perfectly clear the inevitable spiral: she didn't like him. Didn't respect him. Probably never did. Why would she? April hadn't. Mark hadn't. His mother hasn't so much as _dreamed_ of the concept, not since the day she squeezed him out and slapped the Avery brand logo on his ass.

He'd respected her. Liked her. This was good. It was actually for the _best_ that he pulled the plug. They would've moved in together, built another long-term fantasy on diminishing returns, she would've found a reason to leave him, he would've trailed after her shadow, they both would've froze. That's just the way it goes. Relationships never stay in-tact. His father left his mother, sweet Diane cheated on her husband, Webber practically made a _career_ out of screwing women over.

He'd been naive enough to think he could pull off a David and Goliath. Punch out gravity. Postpone the turn of the planet. He followed his heart, and Lexie died. He followed his heart, then broke Stephanie's by ditching her for April. He followed his heart, and April left.

It _all_ goes to shit. One way or another. He _had_ to leave. He _had_ to stop it before it went any further. It was a kindness, wrapped in a cruel foil. A kindness, for everyone...

"Sir?"

Jackson looks up.

"One hot Americano, four shots."

Jackson takes it with a hand that shakes, something he only notices when the cup rattles hard enough to spot brown onto the sidewalk. A scalding drop hits his hand; with a hiss he licks it off, backing out of the line so the others can take their order. Well, he's _definitely_ awake now. When he looks up the two sisters have pulled away from the deli stand with boxes of what appear to be several people's lunches, walking briskly (-ish, Amelia's stride is labored and cautious) down the sidewalk. Toward him. Jackson's bones turn to lead.

"-they're going to check in next week, but they might just drop in later. They have this _huge_ trade show in Anaheim to feature the technology-" Maggie is saying, hastily tilting the box to the right when a bag of chips threatens to fall out. "-it's weird, they're not selling the hearts _wholesale_ or anything, they just want to stir up some hype the old-fashioned way-"

"I mean, it makes sense-" Amelia is digging with wild abandon into a bag of Lay's. "-the field of medicine can come off as kind of cold, so what better way to nip that in the bud with a presentation, cute little heart plushes to get everyone softened up-"

"-want to go so, _so_ bad, but I can't get away from the hospital for more than a day at a time-"

A hundred years ago she dropped her coffee at the sight of him. Now she can't stand the sight of him.

"Excuse us."

Amelia looks at him. Maggie doesn't. A few of those behind him shuffle out of the way so the women can pass, with extra discretion given to the visibly pregnant. Curly hair passes by, with a whiff of shea butter that temporarily softens the day into another kind of blur, followed by straight brown hair and a sidelong glance:

"Eyes to yourself, buddy."

***

Over the next two weeks the good, old-fashioned 'tattoo numbness' starts to set in. It's probably the closest his patient has ever gotten to stepping outside of her comfort zone.

This numbness is partially due to the fact the second-degree areas are healing nicely, partially due to her pain tolerance leveling up (and maybe a little bit to Michael's greatest hits). The past five sessions he's done his best to keep her on a topic of conversation, whether it's the latest play of Wicked (he's never been, she's a huge fan) or the woes of hormonal acne (again, never been, and she's anything _but_ a fan). It's a little fucked up she's smiled more while having her hands and arms peeled open than when her parents were with her, but it's not his place to say.

...Still.

"You know, it's not every day I see a family actively happy their child is pursuing an artistic career." Jackson deliberates over a particularly thin flap of skin, stubbornly clinging in-between a second and third-degree burn. It doesn't look infected. Best to leave it. "When I was growing up a creative field was like a death sentence. If parents weren't advising _against_ it, they were trying to mitigate it with a business or law degree. Even today, with art careers just as viable as any else, the 'starving artist' is a stubborn stereotype."

"That's still very true, from what my colleagues have told me." She pauses abruptly, startled by a sudden thought. "Wait, how old are you?"

"Thirty-seven."

Malani blinks. Her cheeks darken faster than a winter evening.

"Oh."

"Do I...not look thirty-seven?"

"N-No. I mean, yes. I mean...you look young _and_ old at the same time." She looks like she wants to sink through the bed. "If that makes sense."

Jackson huffs. He'll take it.

"They weren't happy about it, at first. My parents. I played when I was young, but kept doing it when they wanted me studying English or tutoring math." She winces when he pokes healthy tissues. Jackson apologies and course-corrects. "I won an award when I was nine and they...thought differently."

"Does it make you happy?"

"...Y-Yes." She clears her throat. "Yes, it does. I love to play. Very much."

Jackson leans back to better worry back a strip of growing skin from a dead patch. Yeah. He's heard this tone before. It's a song he hums all the time. Has never really _stopped_ , come to think of it, and it may have been hummed to him in the womb. That his life was forever someone else's, hell or high water. Malani is composure personified, near-sighted and drugged tired and being peeled apart though she is, but he can almost _smell_ the misery.

"We'll get started on your fingers soon. I'll do my best to get you playing again."

"Do what you can." She doesn't look at him. "I'll manage."

Jackson studies his handiwork quietly. He wonders...if the car accident had not been her worst thing.

"Life's too short to do something that doesn't make you happy."

Malani is careful not to move, but he can feel her eyes on him.

"It's a sentiment repeated all over the place, from Saturday morning cartoon specials to Disney movies to Hallmark cards, but that's because it's true. One of the few truths that gets to see the sunlight, much less bask in it." He drops the loose patch into the bin. The skin is a glaring, shiny, healthy red, working overtime to replace what's been scoured. "You don't want to wait and be reminded. Reminded that the joy is...always nearby, and the only reason we don't grab it _sooner_ is because we know how fleeting it is. Sometimes it feels better not to experience it than to experience it and lose it."

His jaw itches, but he can't scratch. Jackson twists his jaw, swallows back the rest that threatens to come out.

"Everything's clearer from the mountaintop. Don't let a car crash be your only reminder. That fear is just that. Fear." Another strip of skin into the bin. "Don't be afraid of joy, Malani. Of any form it takes."

Malani settles into a long silence. Minutes crawl by, catchy and calm. 'Thriller'. 'Smooth Criminal'. She speaks again when 'Man In The Mirror' starts up.

"...Does medicine make you happy, Dr. Avery?"

It did, once upon a time. Set his soul _aflame_ , every new patient a happy careening into the thrill of the challenge. The pillar to his mother's empire, the cheerful squire to Sloan's knight, every new shadow he dipped into over the course of his career all-encompassing and brutal and somehow _sweeter_ than the last. Medicine wasn't a choice. It was a birthright. He'd been prepared for it, sculpted from his mind to his body, but nothing had prepared him for the high of his first operating room. To feel a life flicker back into warmth beneath _his_ fingertips, through _his_ power. It had been a religion before his religion.

Then, somewhere in-between getting divorced and ushering in a daughter, it didn't. A gun to his head hadn't quite done it. Watching a bus go up in a plume of fire with a kid in his arms hadn't quite done it. Then it did. These days he gets out of bed needing to go to work, then works on a patient while wanting nothing more than to sleep for a few years. Happiness isn't a detail in his equation. It's not even a footnote. Things need to be done, and he'll _do_ them, until he can lay down with something, or someone, warm.

Happiness doesn't matter. He has to snuff it...to do _good_ things.

"Yes." Jackson taps the tool on the edge of the bin. "It does."

Malani goes quiet again, bobbing her head to the music in slow, careful sways. Long enough for him to finish the rest of her left forearm, starting to match the other beautifully.

"I can see why. This hospital is really special. Everyone here is like family." Ha. She's got that right. "One of the nurses came by just to check on everything and talk to me, make me feel comfortable. She told me about rechargeable hearts. Is that true? You can just recharge them like a battery?"

Jackson halts in the middle of reaching for the wipes.

"...I think so. From what I know, it's still in the experimental phases."

"That's really interesting." She smiles, bashfully, as if the experience was wholly out of her expectations. "She was really nice."

Jackson sets down his tools.

"I need to go grab some water. You'll be all right for a minute?"

"Yes."

A glance at the clock tells him he'd been going on too long, anyway. They both needed the break. Jackson strips off his gloves, desanitizes, starts to reach for his phone, then stops. ...Water. He just needs a glass, something to wash the dryness from his throat. He stumbles to his feet to go wave his key card in front of the door. Once. Twice. Thrice. It stays red.

"God _dammit_."

This _damn_ lock system! It hadn't been a good idea from the jump and his mistake of not hammering that point in harder is biting him in the ass so hard he'll be lucky if he ever sits _down_ again. Jackson rubs his forehead, slides his hand down his face to grip his jaw, backing away from the door. No, they can't be stuck in here. What the hell is this hospital thinking, installing these useless fucking things? They're going to get his patient infected mid- _fucking_ -treatment.

"Dr. Avery..."

He holds up a hand for her silence, worst-case scenarios tangling into a ball that looms higher with each passing second. If he doesn't get her out, she'll be stuck, get infected, get sick, die. If he doesn't get her out, _everyone_ else could get stuck, get infected, get sick, die. Every second count. The clock is spinning. This fucking place. Hell in white walls. Jackson runs a hand down his face, tugs at his collar to let air in. Goddamn, it's hot. When the hell did it get so _hot?_

"...you're scaring me."

"Just...stop _talking_. I'm going to get us out of here, okay?"

It's a door. No matter how fancy it is, it's a door that can be busted in just like anything else. Jackson checks behind him, takes a step back, then two...then lunges forward and rams the door. When it doesn't budge ( _it'sinwardfacingnotoutward-_ ) he rams it harder, then _harder_. Nothing. In a sudden fit he grabs on the doorknob, yanks and _yanks_. Someone calls from down the hall, but their words are more muffled cotton. Jackson pants, holds his shoulder when it throbs. No, no, no-

"Dr. Avery-"

Not _now-_

"I can-"

" _ **Shut up!**_ "

Malani goes dead silent, huddled on the other side of the bed in the furthest shift she can manage with her red arms still strewn out like loose ribbons. If she didn't want him yelling, why did she _push_ him? No. He was too hard on her. She's young, probably never been in a situation like this before. The car accident was her worst thing, except it might not've been, and it might just be usurped in five minutes or less. This is on Webber. This is on the fucking board. _He's_ on the board, and this is _all his fault._ Jackson smiles ( _shakes_ ), holds out a hand and bobs it up and down.

"I'm not...I'm not _mad_ , I'm not, just don't _talk_ , I can't think." He licks his lips ( _toodry_ ), rubs his hands together ( _toocoarse_ ), looks around the room, something, anything. "It's okay. I'm going...I'm going to get us out of here."

More voices down the hall, then in the room. Deep and smooth, high and soft, a soft lisp gone tattered from mindless terror, all whispering in the pit of his ear. Like the damn directors, always yapping over each other, vying for dominance, Jackson waves another hand, tries to slice through the muck-

"Malani, please, I'm begging you, just don't fucking _talk_. I can't _think_."

"I-I didn't say anything."

Jackson slowly turns and stares.

...Is she fucking with him? That's not like her. Why would she _say_ that? It's not important. He has no other choice. It'll have to be the glass. Jackson pivots around ( _everything'sswimming_ ), looks for something heavy and large enough ( _that'snotgood_ ). ...The chair. He pushes the clipboard to the floor, his shoulder burning with the strain when his hands reach out, lifts it and hefts it floating into the air-

-and sends the glass from the mountaintop. There's a scream through the shatter, but for once, it's not his.

* * *

_Losing a friend. Losing a passion. Losing your sanity._

_Sometimes you lose the wrong thing and you can't ever get it back. Sometimes that's worse than having gained it in the first place._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I would just do a few one-shots. I said I would just do a few one-shots. I said I would do just a few one-shots. _Fuck_.
> 
> I've been drafting this fic in my head ever since the first episode of season sixteen aired and gave me whiplash then proceeded to kick me while I was down and spit in my hair. I've even dreamed about the damn thing, so vivid it was like watching actual episodes. Well. One thing's led to another and my writer's heart continues to lead me by the nose, for my own _good_ , I'm sure. These two have me so fucking soft.
> 
> In this first chapter alone there are several notable deviations from recent canon. Webber is bouncing between Grey-Sloan and Pac North, both set to merge in the near future. He and Catherine are still happily together. Jackson and Vic have broken up (with ambiguous claims to amicability). There will be more deviations as we go along, until the fic morphs into its own thing entirely. Also, to note, I have not seen _every_ single Grey's Anatomy episode. I started watching around season five, so it's more than possible the opening and closing bookends I've written may sound similar to others. Hopefully not!
> 
> Most of this fic is either written or heavily drafted out, too, so...
> 
> whips out ladle
> 
> **soup's up**


	2. sweet thump

**Song Inspiration:** "Have Mercy" by Eryn Allen Kane

*

_sinking down under the water, slipping down under_

_drifting out into the water, missing down under_

_tell me what is it you care for, is there even a care at all_

* * *

_When a person hears the word 'recharging', they think of convenience._

_It's a modern word. A strong one. It automatically suggests less money spent and more value gained. Rechargeable batteries were a huge deal back in the day, saving customers an extra trip to the grocery store when their remote died. Rechargeable phones, rechargeable toys, rechargeable engines in electric cars. It inspires positive feelings in anyone who hears it._

_So what happens when something can't be recharged back to one hundred percent?_

* * *

"You're kidding me?"

"I'm not kidding you."

"With all due respect, I think I'm going to explode."

Webber rolls his lips together to stifle a chuckle, though he really should just give in and indulge in the joy. It's _fantastic news_. It's the best news she's heard all month. All year. All _life_. Cloud nine is a place she's visited a few times before, and it's never felt quite so fluffy.

Not a month ago she'd visited BPM Plus's radical facility (that's how Link described it, boy, was he was _right_ ): a glossy and shiny beetle of a building, sandwiched between Seattle and Everett in a little slice of eco-futurism with a side of fresh air. She'd read about the lead designer and co-founder of the company, Timothy 'Tom' Adair, a few times before their first meeting. To her surprise he'd been less the stuffy hipster from the interviews and more an everyday dudebro straight out of a fraternity. With the obvious exception of being one of the country's leading experts in heart technology.

During her solo tour of the facility he'd gone into _extreme_ detail about how he got interested in the field in the first place, when his brother got his leg bitten off in a shark attack in Costa Rica.

_"Not to be rude, but how does **that** have anything to do with heart-related technology?"_

_"The sight of a family member hobbling out of the water missing an entire leg has a way of making a man go into cardiac arrest." Timothy thumps his chest with a grin. "Turned out well for both of us, though, especially during Halloween. Blackbeard and Iron Man, ready to hand out full-size Snickers."_

They certainly neglected to ask about _that_ in the interviews.

She got to hold three different prototypes, each one explicitly designed for different age groups, as well as review BPM Plus's test data from recent clinical trials. It wasn't a large facility, _nothing_ like the monster of Grey-Sloan or even the American College Of Cardiology, and was apparently better for it. The team was practically family, from the way they warmly shook her hand to how they bantered with each other over their laptops. The innovative start-up, from top to bottom, was perfectly content for a 'less is more' approach on everything _but_ the future's solution to insufficient hearts.

" _Oh my goodness, you're Maggie Pierce! Oh, I love your work. Seriously, I've been following ever since you published at seventeen. Is that creepy? I hope that's not creepy._ "

The crew had shaken her hand in turn. Crowed over her white papers. Remembered her follow-ups. It'd been touching, so much so she felt like her heart was going to burst into little study pieces all over the floor. She never would've guessed her little bits and pieces of happily donated research had been _more_ than helpful to their work.

" _Wait 'til you see what we're cooking up. Ever read Ironheart? RiRi Williams? It'll make more sense later._ "

Now she's sitting here with an approval for her very first rechargeable heart patient, hot off the heels of experimental technology that's ripe and ready for the testing. She's _definitely_ going to explode.

It's like her life took pity on her and pressed the fast-forward button on her blessings. While she's read up plenty on BPM Plus's advances in mice and elderly patients, she honestly had no idea just how _far_ they'd advanced on the general populace. The project's progress had been relatively quiet (mainly to keep people's hopes in check), spread across a few dozen clinical trials and the details confined to medical journals. The future was right across the street, just waiting to be grabbed. Well. She was nothing if not a _very_ fast learner.

"They talked to you about the patent, too, right?"

"Yes. They said they wanted my name on it, and, for what it's worth, I _still_ think I'm going to explode."

Webber just smiles. He's supernaturally patient as she double-checks to make sure it's not a dream, running over the statistics, the studies, the journals and laborious _failures_ and very near _successes_ suggesting this sort of feat wouldn't go through for another five years, maybe three if the country got its medical funding under control. Her avalanche of words peters out into a little puff when he simply reaches out and claps a firm hand on her shoulder.

"...Maggie. You _did_ it." He gives her a fond little shake. "You really did it. You gave them what they needed to cross that hurdle and now you're going to be leading the charge. It's no guarantee it'll work exactly as planned, but if anyone can figure this out, it'll be _you_."

A contrary voice whispers at that last part, a gossip girl with folded arms and a mean gaze on her back. Maggie nods as hard as she can.

"Right."

She plays the entire conversation on repeat as she goes through the motions of the day, checking up on Brian's blood pressure (a little too high), then Lupe's heart murmur (starting to respond to valve treatment, still not out of hot water). In-between crossing off her schedule and double-checking paperwork it's all she can do not to cup her hands around her mouth and screech to the ceiling. God, Meredith won't even be able to find out about it until their call on Friday. At least Amelia could know. Carry some of this enormous joy with her. She whips out her phone and types so fast her thumbs blur.

_Amelia!!! HUGE news on rechargeable hearts today, let me know when you're available!!!, sent 2:20 p.m._

Months and _years_ of loving dedication to the art of the heart. This is her reward. Her moment to _gleam_. Maggie leans forward to check down the right end of the hall, then the left...then leaps into the air and clicks her heels. When she turns back around she sees Bohkee pushing a gurney topped with extra lap pads, one crinkled eyebrow raised to the high heavens.

***

One impossibly slow and shockingly fast week later she walks in to two fathers and a little girl. All of them ready to take the next big step for their family _and_ the next big step for humanity.

"Hello, everyone. I'm Dr. Pierce." She puffs up her chest. "I'm going to be your cardiologist."

" _Woah_." The girl slowly sits up straight. "...We have the same _hair_."

It's not just the project of her life. It also happens to be the most enjoyable on-boarding meetings she's ever _had_. Jade is an absolute _darling_ , a bouncing spitfire with big hair and even bigger dreams. Her parents waste no time bragging about how she's the track all-star at her school, with ambitions of joining the Olympics someday. She practices pole vaulting in gymnastics extracurriculars and goes on bi-monthly trips to the mountains with her Girl Scout group. She reminds her a little of her. Sans the whole 'weak heart and three past transplants with various success' thing.

"It's really cool being part of something so... _huge_." Jason is nearly as fidgety as Schmitt, despite the fact he looks like he could shove him in a locker. He's pure muscle, a head taller than his husband, and has a fade that looks sculpted by a fine artist. "Like...wow. Just yesterday we were roasting another small batch and trying to figure out how to SEO our Facebook."

" _Optimize_ our Facebook, hon. Actually, _speaking_ of which..." Brett walks over to his backpack over by the door, pulling out a small, shiny bag...then another...then another. "We brought some samples of our coffee, if you drink any. Just as a thank-you for all you're doing..."

The best assignment in the world _and_ free coffee? Maggie feels the urge to click her heels again and promptly resists, because it's ninety percent likely she'd creep at least one of them out. The bags are lovely little things, all glossy blue with little blue jays framing the company name: _Baby Blue Blends_.

"Oh, I definitely drink coffee. Nearly impossible to be a full-time doctor these days without a caffeine addiction. I'll share this, though." Maggie presses one of the bags to her nose and takes in a deep inhale. "...Mm. Maybe."

"That's our new Robusta blend." Jason says, beaming, hands on his hips like he's in front of a camera. "Now, it doesn't get the same reputation Arabica does, but we've been working hard to make sure this has the same high-quality flavor notes as any single-origin you'd find. This one has vivid dark chocolate notes and a smoky finish you won't find in Arabica, bet." He inches forward and frames the side of his mouth with one hand, whispering conspiratorially, "Let the coffee grounds bloom for twenty seconds before steeping, _then_ try it plain. You won't regret it."

"We do have an Arabica blend, though. It's a little sweeter, more raspberry and floral notes, if that's more your style." Brett adds, reaching up to adjust his glasses with a mild smile. "It also tastes amazing on its own..."

Ooh, that won't happen. She absolutely _has_ to have some milk or sugar with her coffee. Anything too bitter made her nose scrunch up. She may have grown up too fast, but her tongue remained firmly ten years-old. Maggie stares down at the bags, running a thumb over the swirling silver inlay detailing the birds' wings. ...Jackson, on the other hand, loved his coffee straight.

"Um, thank you. Seriously, that is... _so_ nice." She sets the bags next to her tablet. "Here. I'd love to know more about your roastery, but let's get started. It's going to be a long day running tests and the sooner we get answers, the sooner we can get you all a shiny new heart."

All three of them settle into place (Jason and Brett on the chairs, Jade on the bed) as Maggie tugs out a whiteboard marker and gets to work practicing her Pictionary abilities. They'd been handed out pamphlets beforehand, yes, _and_ she wanted to make sure there wasn't a shred of doubt on what was going down. The next few weeks would be like testing for a pacemaker, except this was an entirely _artificial_ heart with the ability to sustain itself for several years on periodic recharges. Just innovative things.

"The _goaaal_..." Maggie drawls as she details out superior vena cava. "...is to make sure your daughter has her very own, wholly unique rechargeable heart. If things go as planned, she'll need bi-yearly check-ups, but won't actually need it recharged for five to seven years at a time. It's a self-sustaining device that generates its own energy with minimal diminishing returns, which the recharge replaces in full. The materials used to make it are as delicate and pliant as flesh-and-blood, something BPM Plus greatly prides itself on. I met the people there, some of whom also work in artificial limb development."

Brett is taking notes on his phone, periodically looking up at her as if to show he's listening. Jason, on the other hand, stares in vague wonder, arms crossed and legs spread like a dad in front of a football game. Jade is sitting cross-legged, bouncing her phone on her ankle and watching the board closely.

"So...no more transplants?" She asks, softly. Maggie's heart tightens, equal parts anticipation and determination.

"If this goes well, this'll be your _last_ one."

Brett puts a hand on his daughter's shoulder. The girl shifts a little, smiling and fiddling with her phone as if she could care less.

"Cool."

She's a bundle of rechargeable energy herself. She talks non-stop as she rearranges the room's pads, handlebars and monitors.

"I play soccer right now, but I'm thinking of trying out for softball." She bounces her legs over the side of the bed, as if the energy is too much to hold in one body. There are enough scrapes on her knees to create a tic-tac-toe game with. "I'm going to try out for jazzercise next year. The _cool_ stuff, not the grandma dances."

"Come on, it's not just grandmas." Jason mutters. Jade snickers at that. Maggie disguises her laugh as a sneeze that doesn't fool her own ears whatsoever.

"Sounds like you got a hundred awesome friends." She tweaks the placement mat a little, for effect. Jade shrugs and looks back down at her phone, tugging out the pop button so she can take an impromptu selfie. Judging by the expression, she's going to use one of those dog filters.

"Eh, not really."

"Not _really?_ "

"Oh, I mean, it's not like...I didn't mean it like that. I just don't really have a lot of time. I have to wake up at five and I also have to constantly see the doctor."

Ooh. She _really_ reminds her of her (if little Maggie had a thicker spine and did sports outside of the occasional trip to the public pool). Jason is looking a little frustrated now, mouth rolling with the urge to spit out a word or two. Brett gives him a meaningful look over his glasses, then a nudge when he starts to open his mouth. She should probably say something.

"Well. When you get some new friends, you'll have some pretty good conversation starters. I mean, this is groundbreaking stuff. You're not just getting involved, you're the first child to get tested for it."

Jade squints at her, like she's not really sure what she's getting at. Maggie feels a prickle of sweat under the collar. She might be coming on a bit strong. Then:

"...So I'm going to be a cyborg."

"Kind of."

"Cool."

Both fathers give her a relieved glance over Jade's curly head. Bullet dodged, apparently. Maggie feels the rapidly slipping thread of conversations slithering through her fingers.

" _So_ , uh, you're going to be staying here for a while until we're sure it'll work. When you get the surgery we want to make sure all the cards are down."

"Yeah, I know." She looks a little torn. "...Does the hospital have videogames?"

"Actually, I established a mental wellness room just down the floor that has a bunch of fun, relaxing games you can check out. Once we're done with each session, we can head on down and play a few rounds of Tetris or something." Maggie ticks off her fingers. " _Or_ Animal Crossing _or_ Undertale, now that I got the Switch set up."

Jade's blinks, then slowly grins, showing a missing tooth on the bottom row.

" _Wow_. You're _way_ cooler than my last doctor. All he let me do was read dictionaries and fill in coloring books."

"I mean, coloring books are pretty nice. There's something really satisfying filling in the lines."

"Okay. _Mostly_ cooler than my last doctor."

That's that. Time to go call in for a little help so she can get this girl the playtime she so desperately needed. Maggie goes over to the door, wiggles the knob...then puffs out her cheeks.

"...Forgot my key card." She blows out a rueful sigh and reaches into her coat pocket. " _Can_ help create revolutionary rechargeable hearts for the next generation, _can't_ remember to bring a piece of plastic."

Jade assures her it's okay, tugging out her phone and taking another selfie (this time with a peace sign). Maggie racks her brain for the seven chain code. She can always just punch in her card number...but she doesn't remember _that_ , either. Time to confess to the first defeat of the day. She promptly texts Helm and asks her to swing by and open the door for her (again), with an added promise to bring her something tasty for lunch as thanks.

***

Celebrity nonsense has never been her thing. Except for today. Today she is more than happy to be the Queen Of Hearts. While most of the residents and interns were keen to give her the respect of her station, today has shifted from ' _hello, doctor_ ' to ' _hello, Rihanna_ '. She can hardly turn around without facing a bright pair of eyes and twenty questions. Right now it's Schmitt, trying doggedly to talk around a mouthful of caesar salad.

"Seriously? Rechargeable hearts are going to be a _thing_ now?"

"They _should_ if these last trials go well. Could be as soon as 2022 for the marketplace. Actually getting them priced fairly enough for the general public to afford, on the other hand..." Maggie wiggles a hand. "Working on that."

Nico nods his approval at her in the lunch line.

"That's the most awesome thing I've heard all month." He calls over the hubbub. "And I helped take out a chunk of skateboard from someone's _chest_ yesterday."

Ahh. She's _never_ coming down from this cloud.

Her off-day the following morning isn't touching base with the planet Earth so much as a temporary suspension from the cumulus. ...Barely. Amelia is all too happy to hear about her early progress as they walk out of the hospital and toward the cluster of deli stands and cafes a few blocks down. No matter how much she tries to convince this woman to rest while she can, she won't have it. Maggie's eyes cling to her swollen stomach as she ties on her sneakers, as much as she tries to look elsewhere, affection and concern bundled up in an indiscernible ball.

"Oh, stop. I'm going to be bedridden soon enough. I need to enjoy the breeze. At least everything's nearby." Amelia huffs as they start up the first hill. "Except these hills. These can go to _hell_."

"You ever get that punch in the ovaries?" Maggie asks, then pauses. "Well. I meant _metaphorically,_ back when you weren't pregnant yet-" She sighs and waves a hand. "Okay, I'm, like...three steps ahead of my own thoughts."

"Try again. I'll wait." Amelia pats her stomach, tugging out a baggie of carrots to snack. "So will she. At least, for a month or so."

"Really? Just a month?" Maggie stares happily at her belly. " _Gosh_."

For a second she thinks not of rechargeable hearts, but chubby cheeks and twinkling eyes. Not for the first time. These thoughts were often fleeting, but they sure had a knack for swinging back around. Just the thought of Amelia's makes her heart skip a beat (which she always found funny, how happy things made the body technically malfunction-). Oh, it's going to be so wrinkly and soft and _tiny_. Her hands already itch with the urge to hold, gently pinch cheeks, adjust a swaddle. It's a precarious claim to fame she has, growing up an only child and painstakingly gaining the position of co-aunt with Meredith's gremlins.

It's the hormones talking. Definitely.

"It's just...gosh. I don't know. Sometimes I think kids are still _years_ down the line, but other times..." Maggie sighs and draws her shoulders back, looking up at the sky. It's the first crisp, clear day they've gotten in weeks. Seattle was a sleepy freelancer in a beat-up t-shirt when it came to following seasons. "...I don't know."

"You've already got practice being an aunt." Amelia is somehow pure practicality with a carrot sticking out of the side of her mouth Popeye-style. "You're also...well, _my_ younger sister, but still. That's more practice than most."

When they reach the deli stand Amelia all but _flings_ the carrot baggie into the trash (" _This healthy pregnancy diet can go to hell, too. Don't tell Link._ ") and starts eagerly rattling off sandwich orders for the Grey-Sloan crew. Maggie picks up one of the cardboard carry boxes and double-checks the inside to make sure there's no dirt or dust. She's _all_ for recycling, of course. It'd just be nice if the workers actually checked to make sure nothing was already occupying the things. ...She's never forgotten about that spider.

The sandwiches on the grill sizzle heat into the chilly air, cheese oozing through the grill. They're finished before she can make a bad decision and reach into the grate for a taste test, deftly wrapped up in (recycled) paper and smelling so perfect her knees go weak. They grab chips, too, and as many Snapples as she can carry without overflowing the box. Sure enough, cloud nine comes back around and asks her if she wants round two.

"It's just one thing after another. They're going to check in next week, boost morale after a short interview, but they might just drop in later. They have this huge trade show in Anaheim to feature the technology on a more personal level-"

Amelia gets distracted in the middle of talking about BPM Plus's trade show (which is saying something, since it's _pretty epic_ ).

"What's up? You feeling okay-" She starts, looking up to see-

-Jackson. Her sister's looking at Jackson, standing further up the sidewalk by the coffee stand in his running jacket and Nike Airs. Watching them over a cup of what's probably a plain Americano.

"...Well. There's downside number _two_ to everything being nearby." Amelia sniffs, reaching into the box for a chip bag.

Maggie's heart echoes strangely in her ears, a kick-up arrhythmia that her brain can't register as anything other than ' _a whole lot_ '. If she were drunk she'd call it a sweet thump. Go figure, it's the _one_ day she's not. A group of cyclists wind their way on-and-off the sidewalk, doggedly making their way up the hill. She pretends to watch them as they move up, trying to maintain the simple back-and-forth of walking that, suddenly, feels so very, very strange.

Jackson's face is flushed from what's probably a recent run. It doesn't quite cover the bags under his eyes, nor a restless shift to his stance, like the gravity around him won't stop tilting. It's hard to tell if it's just the distance or a diet change that has him sort of... _willowy_ looking. These thoughts tumble headfirst, three steps ahead and happily gaining more ground without her. She can see them. The past versions of her and him, except instead of maintaining pocket distance like complete strangers they'd _embrace_. Laugh at the happy coincidence of running into each other. She'd bring up the specialty coffee her patient's parents brought her. He'd ask to make them both some once they got home, maybe sneak a bag of chips when he thinks Amelia isn't looking.

It's too late to pretend she didn't see him, but Jackson was the master of too little, too late. He should appreciate it. Amelia doesn't miss a beat, promptly picking up the conversation thread and bringing up the idea of plushie hearts. It's a halfway decent distraction, until she remembers they have to go _past_ this hill to grab a thing of donuts.

Damn it all.

The lump in her throat grows as they reach the top of the hill, no matter how firmly she keeps her head down to the gray slate beneath her feet to avoid the gray slate of his eyes. It's so surreal, the way her body is reacting. Like him and her hadn't sniped at each other in passing during a shift. Hadn't gotten on the same elevator and turned fifteen seconds into a year. There was _nothing_ different about yet another random encounter. Another poke in the wound. She tries to think of a joke or a fake sneeze or _something_ to feed the denial that this is just another stretch of concrete in just another part of the city.

Nothing comes. Jackson is a gravity, with all the mercy of a black hole, and the scent of his favorite musky cologne on top of coffee is enough to undo her entirely. All she can manage is:

"Excuse us."

The winding caterpillar of a coffee line shuffles to make way. So does he, a second too late. Amelia waddles after her, though she can't resist a parting word:

"Eyes to yourself, buddy."

It's the longest stretch of sidewalk on the planet. She's sure of it. His gaze was always an avalanche, anyway, and whenever he turned it on her it was either run or drown. Her shoulders tickle with the feeling of being watched, balls of her fingers digging into the sharp box edge. Only once they reach the end of the hill, crossing a street and ducking between a gaggle of tourists, does she finally glance over her shoulder. ...He's gone. Even though he never really seemed to be present anywhere, anyway. Amelia snorts.

" _Seriously_. It's like he got amnesia. Not that I'd _want_ him to say hello or anything..." Amelia scrounges at the bottom of the bag for leftover crumbs. "Maggie, when this baby is out and I'm no longer the uncool swollen grapefruit of a sister, we're going on a double-date by the docks or something. Eat some salmon, go on a boat ride, watch a play. My treat."

Maggie looks down at the sandwiches.

"Sure."

***

The first time Jade's heart flatlines, her heart flatlines with it.

Her fathers are horrified in the quietest sort of way. The kind of stout acceptance that comes with seeing this very thing happen several times in the past. For lack of a better turn-of-phrase, it breaks her heart.

During the entire procedure bringing her back to life Maggie's thoughts leapfrog, bouncing on each future scenario bound to come after dozens of tests and hundreds of notes. Jade has a weak heart, with unsuccessful past transplants on top of it. This is what she signed up for. Once she has the rechargeable heart implant a flatline will _still_ be a perfectly appropriate response to new, sensitive medical technology adapting to the unique blood pressure of the patient. She repeats the mantra in her head as she stands in the empty corner of the hallway, panting through the sour hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

The hole that's grown bigger since Sabi was put on life support and her mother was put into a hole in the ground.

Jason and Brett are understanding when she assures that she'll slow down the testing phase a little. Scared, understanding, resolute. It's impossibly kind. So _unlike_ the way the planet cracked in two back at Pac North, the ground between her and her uncle filled with a gap so wide a running leap of faith couldn't hope to clear it. Maggie's mind outright shortcircuits like an old PC when Jason reaches out and pats her shoulder ( _like a friend-_ ). It's only her professionalism that keeps her asking why they wouldn't yell at her and ask for a new doctor.

Once the smoke clears and the parents are settled in for the night (not wanting to leave their daughter's side), she's reassured by Owen. She's reassured by Bailey. She's reassured (still is) by Alex. She's comforted by people who are so smart, yet don't seem to know a single _thing_ they're talking about. When Webber sends her a text asking how things are going so far, she hits her already low ceiling of tolerance and calls for an impromptu get-together at the sisterhouse.

Thankfully, red wine and Scrabble solves everything.

"That's not a word." Alex snorts, reaching for his drink and tossing the last centimeter back like a shot. Zola snorts right back at him, still hunched over the board as if trying to suss out a hidden energy.

"Oh, it's _definitely_ a word. My teacher used it in English class."

"Who the hell uses oh- _pew_ -less- _sance_ in the day-to-day?"

The girl smiles mischievously, promptly reaching for the dictionary and thumbing through it. Jo lets out a scandalous little _ooh_ over her mug of hot chocolate, already drawing a line in the sand. Maggie hums over the rim of her glass and waits for the inevitable.

"See? It's not just a word, it's an _adjective_." Zola snaps it shut and reaches for the pieces. "That's points to me."

"Eh, whatever. My turn."

Alex glances her way as he leans forward and starts shuffling through words, ever making sure she's not going to fall over. Luckily for him, she feels like sitting down tonight. He's been no slouch on the wine either, already on his second glass and looking thirsty for a third. Pac North had a way of doing that to people. Jo's gaze is sleepy, yet watchful. Watching the watchers. If she didn't know better, she'd call this therapy.

"You sure that's not too much for a Thursday night?" Alex murmurs beneath his breath, giving her knee a concerned nudge with the tip of his elbow. Maggie reaches for the wine, pours herself a hearty double-inch, then swirls it around to catch the light.

"'Course not." She holds up the bottle. "Refill?"

***

She used to hate sleeping in her bed with other people. He had to go and ruin _that_ , too.

Counting electric sheep doesn't help. Silently begging the Sandman with every last ounce of desperation _really_ doesn't help. Maggie tosses and turns until the very concept of sleep is a foreign language, sitting up so hard her headscarf slides off. ...Looks like a warm cup of something is on the menu. With a groggy sigh she gives up and shuffles down to the kitchen, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards. Alex and Jo are out like a light on the couch (the former snoring, the latter snoring louder). Seems like they got most of the sleep sand. Maggie puts a mug of hot water in the microwave, presses the buttons as quietly as she can, then tosses in a chamomile tea bag and shuffles back to bed.

It's a stupid few minutes of feeling sorry for herself in the dark, crosslegged against the headboard with a cup of stale tea threatening to burn her fingertips. Her brain tries to work itself up in-between the distant call of citylife, because she was awake and that's what it does, and her chest burns with a fresh frustration. Meredith wasn't here for a midnight rant. Amelia needed her baby sleep. As she bundles herself beneath the blanket she gains an entirely new appreciation not just for sleep, but the phantom limb. It isn't a phenomenon she knows personally, but, after these knotted few months, she's an expert.

Her knee keeps expecting to brush against a firm thigh, hard from regular exercise. The silky soft dip of a kneepit, maybe. Her fingers ghost along the sheets, searching for a smooth chest, a jutting Adam's apple, a glance of leftover stubble. It's not the first time it's happened. It won't be the last. It's been long enough since they plunged off that happy cloud for this to make no sense...except, apparently, it hasn't. The warmth from the tea mingles with the burn in her chest. A hot, prickling awfulness with nothing else to do but sputter out in the dark with her.

_"Find someone worthy."_

"...I thought I did." She keeps her voice constrained in the crook of her arm. Even if her mother were here right now, petting her hair and telling her a story, it would all still feel like a filthy secret. "I really...I really thought I did."

_"He needs to think he's lucky to have you, not the other way around."_

"He doesn't like me. He doesn't love me. Didn't even try to deny it when I snapped at him."

_"Find a man who loves you a little more than you love him."_

' _But he didn't even love himself, Mom._ ' Maggie drifts to the uncomfortable dissonance of too much space. Within and without. ' _You're normally so good at reading people, but this turned out so wrong._ '

***

"Stop. Check. How are we feeling?"

"I feel good. Really good."

"Good. Let's see what your monitor has to say about that."

Jade puffs her curls out of her eyes and frowns over at the wall. Reminds her of Zola when she gets in her (unfortunately more common) pre-teen moods. It's kind of like additional practice on having a kid of her own. Meredith's kids have been her first taste. This project was another angle with which to come at motherhood. After all, it's always a possibility that she could give birth to a kid with a serious enough health problem to warrant regular doctor visits. That, or adopt, if she wasn't too terrified of watching Amelia give birth.

"All right, just a few more. Then it's Undertale time."

Maggie watches the girl start up another round of simple stretches, cross-referencing automatically between her movements and the heart monitor. She's as focused and precise as ever, with all the grace of a future Olympic gymnast. It's hard not to relax watching her touch her toes and reach to the ceiling, moody face gone blank with concentration. Despite the fear (always warning her of the other hospital, the _other_ great failure-), it's...easy. Brisk. Her eyes glide smoothly over the numbers, the fluctuations and changes.

It's a bad thing. Her mind isn't proper without constant occupation, constant challenge. A slice of it pulls off to drift off in a satellite, revolving around the wreckage still smoking at her back.

_He's sitting in the hallway, elbows on his knees and a watery gaze on the wall. If she hadn't been looking for him, she might not have recognized him. Jackson didn't cry. At least, not in front of people. Not in front of her._

_He folds his hands in his lap and rubs at his knuckles, trying to find something to hold and coming up solo. He talks about emptiness. He talks about his mother. He talks about Samuel. He's never brought him up, not even at their most drunk. It's a fierce secret he guards under sweet smiles and sharp suits, banking on polish to make everyone forget about him and his woes, except she can't, because he's now an inseparable part of her axis, and she feels a little lucky to have him spinning in her life, anyway._

_"I don't like it."_

_Then Jackson collapses into a shivering huddle in her arms, and all she can do is try to pet down those curls and give him something to hold onto._

" _Done!_ Can we go play some games?"

Maggie blinks. Jade is waving eagerly at the window at a nurse peering in (Helm, who waves back enthusiastically).

"Oh, uh, very soon. I need to make sure everything's on the up-and-up." She hops to her feet. Jade huffs and bounces from foot to foot.

"I'm going to actually go crazy. Like, for real. Dad One and Dad Two were _this_ close to not letting me get out of bed today."

"Oh, I know." Maggie glances from old notes to new, trying to find the smallest detail out of place. "I'm just glad you get along with all the nurses, though. You fit right in here."

Jade shrugs. She takes a step back, then lurches forward and does a perfect handstand. _This girl._ Maggie entertains the brief fantasy of supergluing her feet to the floor.

"Yeah, I tend to be cool with adults." She takes a hand-step, rotating slowly to better look at her upside-down. "I don't really see a lot of other kids, even at school."

Maggie tilts her head to turn her right-side up. ...Sideways.

"Do you want to?"

"I guess. I don't know." It's impressive how she manages to shrug while standing on her hands. "Other kids are kind of dumb."

"Adults are kind of dumb, too." A long-suffering note enters her voice, despite her best attempts to smother it. "...Trust me. I'm _very_ well-versed in that. You're better off dealing with other dumb kids until you have no choice but to grow up."

"Yeah, I guess. Adults can sometimes...no offense...be really annoying." She flips back down and slumps on the floor. "It's like, they can't talk to me without telling me to do something or that I'm doing something super great. Sometimes I just...I don't know. Wanna put my Olympics dream on vacation or something. I mean, I _want_ it, still, but...I just get kinda tired." She sighs and twines a finger around one of her curls. "Does any of that make sense?"

Perfect sense. It's the beat-and-thump of her childhood: a nerdy little girl with a pigeon-toe walk and a lisp, always just a _liiitle_ out of sync with everyone else. The off-beat to the standard pulse, indoors when children were playing outdoors and five steps ahead of adults who were supposed to be the ones leading. She was a flutter that had people narrowing their eyes and reaching out to course-correct. If it weren't for the determined efforts of her mother and father, she'd be a homebody whose love life began and end with a catnip toy and fifteen strays.

"That makes a ton of sense. I'm actually kind of relieved. You shouldn't want to grow up too fast." She wraps up the session by kicking the placement mat out of the way. "There are some things you can't get back. No matter how hard you try. You have to savor it while you can."

It's a little short for a motivational speech, but she thinks she got the point across, if the girl's thoughtfully scrunching nose is any indication. Jade opens her mouth to reply-

-right as the hospital security alarm blares.

" _Agh!_ "

Maggie slaps hands over her ears. Jade follows suit, hunching for good measure, one eye crushed shut and the other rolled up to the ceiling. God, she hopes this doesn't put her patient into _another_ cardiac arrest.

" _That's so loud!_ " Jade squawks, face scrunching tighter. " _What's happening!_ "

"It's okay, sweetheart, it might be a drill." Maggie yells over the blare. She trades one of her hands for the hump of her shoulder, snatching her key card. "Stay put, I'm going to go outside for a second-"

Oh, that's right. The doors aren't supposed to open during a drill. Still. It couldn't hurt to test and see. Maggie grabs her key card and waves it front of the scanner. Sure enough, the red light turns green.

" _Just a drill, then!_ " She calls to Jade. " _Hold on just a second!_ "

The hallway is quiet chaos, all shuffling feet and confused glances. She asks damn near a dozen people what's going on, either getting shrugs or questions herself. Maggie exasperatedly reaches out to a passing intern, a dark-haired young woman whose name she hasn't caught yet.

"Hey, any idea where Webber is?"

"He left for Pac North an hour ago. What's going on? Isn't this the fire alarm?"

"Sounds like it."

It's not quite as hazardous as the time an actual explosion rattled the hospital, but it's close. Schmitt is on the next floor down. There's blood on his lab coat.

"What's going on?" Maggie skids to a halt, blinking at the stain. It's in the shape of a handprint, like someone just clapped him on the shoulder. "Where'd _that_ come from?"

"D-Dr. Pierce..." He stutters, wringing his hands together so hard they turn white. "Someone broke a window. The security guards are outside..."

"Wait, is that why the alarm is off?" He nods, shakily. Well, that's a relief. Sort of. "A patient?"

"U-um."

Well, she has no idea what _that_ look means. It's all a little odd, and it's not just this man's quintessential neuroticism (for once). Why would a broken window be cause for a literal alarm? Was the patient high-risk? Dangerous? Damn it. She doesn't have time for this. Maggie turns on one heel and jogs back down the hall and up the stairs. Whatever's going on, she has to sit it out with the girl and keep a close eye on that monitor. When she waves her key card at the scanner it doesn't open. ...Because of _course_.

"Come _on..._ " She huffs, trying again, then again. When it doesn't budge she pockets it and painstakingly punches in her code. No dice. The little black box stares at her with all the life of a CRT-TV. "Oh, _damn it_."

There isn't enough wine in the world for this. The only people she can think of to override the security settings were the guards or the literal programmers themselves. She can't help but think of Stephanie and her departure from the hospital, held hostage by a horrible man and the worst luck possible with things like this. Her card had been her -- and _his_ \-- point of access throughout the building, until it abruptly wasn't, and no other options had been available. Then again, would trapping those two in a room together have made it any better? Not from what she'd heard over the reunion.

There's no time to internally debate the merits of the board (she could most definitely get to that later). She knocks on the window and shouts, as loud as she can:

" _I'll be back, okay?_ "

Maggie flashes a thumbs-up, just in case. Jade, still covering her ears, sticks out one of her thumbs and nods. Tough kid.

She doesn't want to leave her alone. She also needs to find an override and nobody else is around that can help, as far as she knows. Maggie tries not to run into confused workers as she heads for the lobby, some jogging for the exits and others fidgeting in place. She'll ask one of the guards for an override. ...Except, as Schmitt said, the guards are all outside. God, she's getting in a week's worth of moderate-aerobic with this nuisance alone. The chill of outside is a sharp reprieve from the sweat she's worked up. Sure enough, there are _quite_ a few people outside the double-doors, security and nurse and patient alike. One of the security vehicles is parked nearby, lights flashing and bouncing in the growing dark.

Maggie leans on her knees and pants for a second.

"Okay, does _anyone_ know how to open up the doors if they-"

She trails off when she sees what everyone's staring at. There's a man standing in the middle of the ambulance lot.

"...get stuck."

Blood on his face. Blood on his coat.

" _...Jackson?_ "

Not so much as a flinch. Her mind's fingers flip pages on all that she knows ( _used to be her best friend, her gravity and her dearest one, hates her, can't stand her_ ) with what she's seeing with her own two eyes ( _blood on his arm, bulging eyes, surrounded by alarmed co-workers_ ). Maggie's feet move of their own volition, though she has no idea what to do, or how this happened, or what's going on. A hand takes her shoulder in a vice grip. It's one of the security guards. The one with the cropped hair that she sees near the parking lot.

"Ma'am, stay back. He's armed."

"What do you mean, armed, he's _bleeding-_ " Maggie gapes, trying to pull away. He lets go, but holds up a hand for her to stay put.

"Stay _back_ , please." He gestures to his jaw with one thick finger. It's red and swelling. "He got me good. You'll just make it messier if he goes after you."

Goes _after_ her? What is he talking about? Her mind is in the middle of swinging to the next frantic question when she spots it: a long shard of glass in Jackson's hand. Squeezing so tight blood is trickling a dark string to the ground. When the hell did that happen? Why has nobody gotten him medical attention yet? If she's dreaming, _this_ is the part where she needs to wake up, to the sound of Meredith's kids squawking about breakfast or her horrible alarm. Maggie pinches her arm, to no avail.

"Shit." She whispers, swaying a little in place when reality stays right where it is. "Oh, _shit_."

She wasn't prepared for this. Somehow, a betrayal and abandonment combo so devastating she knows it'll haunt her for years still hasn't prepared her for _this_.

"Jackson? _Jackson!_ "

No matter how many times she repeats his name he doesn't respond. She might as well be on the East Coast. The visitors and nurses near her mutter, a ceaseless humming her ears won't stick to in the adrenaline. Another hand lands on her shoulder. God, not _now!_ She starts to shrug it off, turning around to see not the guard, but Amelia, brown hair in disarray from what was no doubt the fastest walk she could manage. Owen trails close behind, bulky winter jacket thrown over his lab coat. The sight of his lined face makes her prickle, but he's the least of her concerns right now.

"We got here as fast as I could, what's going on?" Amelia starts, only to stutter when she looks over her shoulder. "Holy _shit-_ "

"I-I don't know. He's got a piece of glass, a security guard said he attacked him-" Maggie tries, gripping her hand in a desperate anchor. "When the alarm went off I walked out to check and then got locked out, I just came out and saw him like this-"

Owen, for what it's worth, wastes no time. He promptly tells the security guards to stand down and let them handle the situation. They straighten visibly at the authority in his voice, though only just. One asks who he is. Another tells _him_ to stand down and get the hell back so they can do their job. Owen speaks briskly, tightly, fully aware of the tenuousness of the situation.

"Schmitt said he was walking by when he hear a window break. Said he saw Jackson walking through the halls not too long after. According to him Jackson pulled the emergency lever and started yelling at people to get out." He grits his teeth. "A _lot_ of people saw that."

Oh. ...He's losing it. He's _lost_ it, and maybe has been _without_ it for a while. This assessment's more accurate than she's realized. The moment Owen started speaking Jackson snapped to attention. Now he's walking toward them-

" _Watch out-_ " Amelia snaps, gripping her tightly and trying to pull her away-

-and he's up close, not three feet away and close enough for her to smell the iron soaking through his coat.

"You gotta get out, he's still here, I saw-I saw Christina, April, downstairs, around the corner, _downstairs-_ "

Jackson gesticulates wildly with both hands, flecking blood onto her face, the front of her shirt. His smooth candor is gone, swapped out with a ramble more befitting a dementia patient. The entire scenario starts to dim into an uneasy horror. Her mind is floating to a different cloud this time. One promising the fall of a lifetime. Owen holds out a firm palm to security ( _bunching up shoulder-to-shoulder, balancing tersely on the balls of their feet-_ ), then shifts in front of her and Amelia. A subtle distraction and potential interception both.

" _Who's_ still here, Jackson?" He asks. The clamor around them ebbs, softens until the only consistent noise is the alarm still ringing in the building. Jackson gestures behind him, toward the parking lot and clustered bystanders.

"It all fell off, right through the top, I told everyone to leave-" His voice raises sharply, off-key and angry- "The _fucking_ door was locked-"

"Okay, okay. I'm listening. Okay." Owen nods along with the mantra like it makes perfect sense. "The door was locked."

"Where's Christina?" Now he's scared, almost plaintive- "April, Christina, Meredith, are they okay-"

"They're okay. They're out. They're _safe_."

Amelia keeps her face still, putting an arm around hers and holding on firmly. Despite the lightheadedness setting in, she's touched by her insistence on a protective barrier, despite being seven months pregnant and barely pushing five foot eight. Owen, still facing Jackson at an angle, mutters quickly out of the side of his mouth.

"I think _he_ thinks he's back at the shooting. Panic attack, maybe a hallucination. PTSD can do that, if it's severe enough. I've been there." He pauses when someone shouts from the hospital doors, then continues, quickly. "Jackson saved Derek's life, him and Christina, he tricked the shooter into leaving by pretending to let him flatline. They both had the gun to their head. Christina told me about it later, said it was _his_ idea in the first place."

Maggie narrows her eyes as it sinks in. The shooting? The mass shooting years ago, the one she saw while browsing the daily news on her phone while visiting her father? ...That's right. He was working here when that happened. She knew that much, but had no idea he'd been in the _middle_ of it. Jackson is still staring at Owen with his entire body rattling like a sheet of paper, completely oblivious to the chaos around him.

"I didn't know..." She breathes, turning to her sister. "I didn't..."

"Meredith didn't share much, with either of us. It's..." Amelia sighs tightly. "I don't blame her."

Neither does she. Would it have even prepared her for something like this?

"He freaked out in...Bailey's hyperbaric chamber." Maggie whispers, slowly, half-truths and distant revelations sluggishly coming together. "He told me...he gets nightmares, sometimes."

She doesn't know what to do. All she knows is that she's scared. That she _feels_ helpless, even though that doesn't make sense, as a doctor and as... _someone_ , who used to be _something_ to him. An aching sliver slices through her at that last thought, trying its damndest to fight through the maelstrom of emotions, too soft and fragile by a half. That helplessness tightens when Jackson starts talking again, to himself, responding to something she can't hear.

"Why are they locked? Why..." He rubs his bloody hand over his jawline (it's also his arm, there's a nasty gash in his arm-), dragging dark smudges over his chin and neck. "It's not supposed to be..." He winces, shakes his hand in the air, stares at it like he's not sure why it's attached to his arm. "Why..."

The same security guard (eye looking _distinctly_ swollen now) holds up a two-way and asks for a confirmation. Owen snaps at the man to put it down. The world around them feels like it's teetering on the edge of a cliff. Just a whiff in either direction could send the entire thing crashing to pieces. Maggie startles when Owen turns that hard gaze on her.

"Talking to me won't help. Not if he's hallucinating and I'm indirectly part of the problem." He bobs his chin curtly, now in full-commander mode. "One of you, talk him down, calm him down. Ask simple questions. I can get around and subdue him." He lowers his voice again. "I don't trust these guards as far as I can throw them."

Should what? Say _what?_ Amelia is quick to act as she always is, taking a step forward. Owen puts a protective hand on her stomach, tries to urge her back. She hisses something below her breath. As if pulled by an invisible force Maggie feels her body moving past them, feels her voice raising _just_ loud enough to be heard over the alarm.

"...Jackson? How did you get here?"

Jackson's chest flutters with short, stiff pants. He seems baffled by the commotion, now, round eyes flicking to the doors, the cars, the people. He squints and leans forward, as if she's in a fog and he's rapidly losing sight of her.

"...What are you _doing_ here?" It's surreal. He's looking straight at her, he _sounds_ perfectly aware, but he's anything but here- "You shouldn't be here, it's dangerous."

Maggie glances to Owen. The man nods, inching to the right so slowly it's as if he's not moving at all. She turns back around, takes in a deep breath and repeats herself.

"How did you _get here?_ "

Jackson's eyes narrow. His head tilts, expression vacillating between blurry confusion and growing paranoia.

"I was..." He starts, then winces. Looks down at his hand. "It's gone now..." He looks back up, eyes widening. "Where's my _patient?_ "

"She's inside. She's safe. You need to come inside, though. You're hurt." Maggie's smile trembles unreliably. "Okay?"

Jackson straightens a little, looking around at the commotion with uneven awareness, a lightbulb flickering on and off. It doesn't matter she was on the receiving end of his worst self, at his most stubborn and his most cold. Maggie inwardly _begs_ for him to listen. Just tonight, just this once. She can't bear to see him tackled or tazed or _whatever_ these new guards think is the best course of action for someone sick. They're still on-edge, stances wide and shoulders squared. One more wrong step or flash of that glass and their meager barrier won't mean shit.

The fire alarm abruptly goes off, and the silence hits like a door slam. The security car's lights refract off the blue delivery trucks. Bounce blue all over the walls, all over his white coat and messy face. A blue room that's anything _but_ peaceful. Maggie's arm moves with a life of its own. Lifts up and out to hold a hand to the man before her, in a gesture that never died, even after it was stomped to dust and condemned to drop...

...and, just like that, the spell is broken. Jackson stares at her for a heartstopping moment, blue on blue, then steps toward her.

The tension in the air snaps in two. Amelia _sighs_ , carefully mincing backwards as Jackson drifts past the ambulance and the confused nurses, gaze downcast as he picks at the leftover splinters in his hand, dropping one-by-one in a morbid, glittering trail. His hand is a red mess, the lone shard he's holding reflecting the spinning lights. The guards behind her rumble warning she can't make out and knows all _too_ well.

"Don't." Maggie hisses over her shoulder. "I _got_ this." She looks meaningfully to Owen, too, still ready and waiting over Jackson's unassuming shoulder. Only when he nods his acquiescence does she flick her fingers, like she did when coaxing Bailey out from under the bed during a thunderstorm. "Here. Let's go inside. I got you."

The glass shard slips from Jackson's trembling fingers to hit the ground. Somehow, over the wailing siren and smattering of voices, she can hear the _ping_ : a high, final note signaling the end of one of the worst nights of her life. Maggie reaches up and, with a numb hand, wipes a smudge off his cheek.

"...There you go."

There are no tearful realizations. No declarations or swinging hugs. Life isn't a romance novel, and they're anything but heroes, leaning against each other's shoulders and slinking back inside the hospital while the world comes undone.

* * *

_What happens when someone can't be recharged up to one hundred percent?_

_What happens when the core issue has been so worn out from constant revivals it doesn't have the same result it used to?_

_Even the most rechargeable devices have to be swapped out or upgraded. It's not a sign the technology is faulty, but that nothing, truly, is forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bangs ladle against the soup pot
> 
> **_come get your meal_ **
> 
> So! More differences from the canonical storyline thus far: Meredith is serving extended jail time and community service for fraud, leaving both Maggie and Amelia (and occasionally Alex) to watch the kids. Rechargeable heart technology has seen a boost in development. Sabi is alive, but currently on life support. Jackson has a _slightly_ more compelling reason for his behavior other than 'desperately fish Station 19 out of the obscurity pile'. Yadda yadda.
> 
> Something that gets me about season sixteen is what a miserable slog the whole thing is. Not because it has less-than-savory outcomes -- par for the course in a medical drama -- but because it took a big, steaming dump on _everything_ that came before it. More like doing homework than kicking my feet up and enjoying some art. It's actually a much shorter list to describe which characters or plot lines _didn't_ get wacked with the bad writing stick. You get a slap to the head! _You_ get a slap to the head! Look under the chair, there's probably a baby (or three)-
> 
> One plot line I hated supremely (aside from the dozen others) was the 'romance' between Jackson and Vic. What's even worse? The core concept was actually _quite_ interesting. Two grieving, stressed individuals rebounding with one another to avoid their problems, with a lot of potential for mental health and grief-focused plotlines. ...Too bad the execution was amateur hour! In other words, it's a great writing challenge. How could I take something with potential, yet contrived and still pretty out-of-character, and weave it in a way that's compelling and makes _sense_? now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go try and dream up another episode for sanity's sake


	3. back to gone

**Song Inspiration:** "I Remember" by Mahalia

*

_i remember when you used to come around_

_i remember every time I had a frown you'd hold me_

_until the stars came out and the sun went down_

* * *

_Finding meaning can be exhausting work._

_Giving up on the notion entirely isn't an option. Not when meaning separates humans from animals. Religion offers a softer path to meaning, psalms the guiderails and church the shelter from existential storms. Community is more crooked. Alcohol is more cruel. Some go for all three, just to end up even more lost. Meaning is everywhere, but not all of it should be taken. When someone has always had meaning in their life, something new can threaten an old foundation._

_Something new can bring the entire thing down._

* * *

"Go around the back, please. I want to keep the paparazzi crowdsurfing to a bare minimum."

"Yes, ma'am."

She trusts him almost as much as she trusts herself, as monumental a compliment as she's _ever_ given in her long life, but it never hurts to be careful. Journalists have only gotten craftier these days, bolstered to bloating from technology's access. Catherine checks her phone, then sighs and reaches for the mini-fridge. ...She feels a rant coming on. It'd be unbecoming to let it spill. Jonathan may have more crowds and nosy reporters under his belt than most chauffeurs _combined_ , but he isn't her therapist. Probably could be, if she bumped up his benefits package.

Tempting fluff. Nothing more. There isn't a soul in the world that could comfort her right now...when right now is the worst reality she's been hit with since the Harper Avery scandal. Catherine tosses back a lemon shot for the road.

"It's like waiting to hear a pin drop." She asks through the burn, in a question she's already slapping herself for before he straightens to attention. "Just a tweet from Grey-Sloan's Twitter on a pending situation that's 'under control'." Her voice lowers to a sour mutter. "And more than a few more tweets from patients who apparently can't mind their own business."

"I hear you, ma'am. Webber hasn't replied yet. Jackson hasn't responded to any of the messages, either. I left another message on both of their phones, just in case." Bless this man. He flicks a gloved hand at a parent and child across the walkway, then makes a slow, careful turn. They're almost there. "I can call someone else, if you like."

"No...thank you, Johnathan. I'm just venting steam." It's a metaphor more apt than she'd like to admit. She's spending all her hot air and losing her cool. Well. It's not like she didn't have anyone else that could fill her in during this miserable crawl. She reaches for her phone and starts flicking through the contacts. "I'll text Maggie. She's been spending more time at the hospital than at home, thanks to her new project." Growing dread or no, she can't help but smile at that. "Just incredible."

"Mm-hmm. Feels like yesterday German Measles was getting the boot." Jonathan chuckles. "Robotic hearts that can be charged like a battery...phew, that's something else."

Catherine starts to type, only to halt mid-tap and stare at the keypad with cold trepidation. ...Come to think of it, the poor girl may not even _know_ about it. Her rechargeable hearts often had her at Grey-Sloan, yes, when it wasn't having her _off-site_ to meet with partners or take care of the Grey family. Maybe she should wait. If there's _any_ possibility the woman could wallow in blissful ignorance, it should be taken. Catherine deletes her message a few times. Rewrites it. Lets it sit for a few seconds to let the words play out in her mind proper.

Carving away as she ever is the jagged edges of another future family disaster, until it's as soft and smooth as she can muster.

 _Good evening, Maggie. I hope this reaches you well. Please contact me as soon as you can_.

Sent. Catherine holds the phone to her chest, leans back in her chair and sighs. Richard had said he acted strangely last night, after a relaxing dinner and a movie they barely watched. More strangely than _usual_ , he'd taken great care to stress, and her son has been steadily inching up that bar until it damn near disappeared into the stratosphere. He'd made no bones how unhappy he was about the split was Maggie. Neither did she.

_Jackson had a breakdown. Get to the hospital ASAP, Richard, sent 4:59 p.m._

She'd just gotten finished with a presentation at the University Of Washington when she got his message. It'd been a rather tidy speech-and-show breathing life into a somewhat lacking program, ending on a thunderous applause that saw some standing out of their chairs. The message buzzed right after she shook hands with a promising undergraduate looking to focus on osteology.

_What do you mean, a breakdown? Is he okay?!, Catherine, sent 5:00 p.m._

_He's alive. Don't know if he's okay, Richard, sent 5:03 p.m._

Check. Set. Check. Set. Bitter fear and the vacant wall of the unknown has stacked higher and higher since, turning her into a useless creature of flesh-and-blood, capable of two motions. Catherine checks her phone one more ( _damned_ ) time, then slides it into her purse and snaps it shut. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, adjusts her collar, checks her lipstick. The scroll of the city lights does little to comfort her. Fitting time for her zen on-the-go to abandon her.

_What happened?, Catherine, sent 5:12 p.m._

_Richard, talk to me. What did he do? Is he still there?, Catherine, sent 6:14 p.m._

_Richard, just send a Y or N!!, Catherine, sent 5:15 p.m._

With her appearance impeccable and another lemon shot too dangerous, Catherine's mind has no choice but to drift. There are only worst case scenarios when it comes to her baby boy.

_Of all the things for him to ask for, it was **that** noisy thing._

_Peer pressure wasn't her forte. It was simply tradition to have one of those ridiculous boxes painting out the background of a child's golden years. Even one of the nation's leading private schools hadn't spared him the stereotype. Jackson is oblivious to her irritation (and the pulsing frustration of the living room at large), happily poking and prodding the tweezers out of the man's stomach and squawking whenever the buzzer goes off. He's still wearing his Santa hat, knitted sweater discarded and dangling on the edge of the sofa. Catherine opens her mouth to tell him to hang it up, that he wasn't raised in a barn...then slowly shuts it._

_In a little bit._

_"Jackie, I swear, if that goes off **one** more time I'm using it as tinder for the Christmas fire."_

_Harper stares down his nose in a look that has had adult men shivering like a branch. Jackson doesn't back down, but he deflates and pouts._

_"...Don't call me Jackie." He casts a surly look over his shoulder, a back-up entreaty for his father. Robert is pouring another glass of pinot grigio, still chuckling over a shared joke. It's another glass too much for a pleasant Christmas evening, but now's not the time for that, either. Jackson is holding up the little pen. "Dad, come try. I'm trying to get the lung."_

_Harper flicks a dismissive hand, resuming his conversation with Robert with a swirl to his cocktail glass. It's quite a thrilling discussion they're having about skin repair technology. Still not so thrilling either of them could spare a minute for the child._

_"Harper." She says over her drink. He turns that dismissive hand on her._

_"Not now."_

_Hmph. Well. If she taught Jackson anything, it's that he shouldn't wrestle bent spoons. The boy has curled over his board again, poking and prodding now silent as a mouse. Catherine spares a little softness his way. He's been rather well-behaved all day, all things considered. Then again, she didn't exactly leave presents beneath the tree to be rifled through like some parents did. Harder to find an opportunity to misbehave when she didn't give him landing lights._

_"...Hey, baby."_

_Jackson looks up again. There's a touchiness to his gaze now, where there'd been nothing but squallish delight before. Catherine jots down a note to remind Harper of his role in the family: 'distant-yet-doting grandfather', not 'hawkish boss who got his morning coffee delivered late'._

_"Make sure you have good lighting. Hard to fix what you can't see."_

_Jackson scrunches his mouth. Looks down and tilts his head._

_"...It's hard." He reaches in for what looks like a little doggy bone, then bounces when it buzzes. "Oops."_

_"Here. Why don't I give it a try." Catherine winks, setting down her glass and moving away from the table to go kneel down beside him. "I'm **very** good at pulling out hearts with tweezers."_

_Jackson smiles and sits on his feet, putting his hands on his knees patiently._

_"Get clean edges, Mom."_

"We've arrived, ma'am."

A cluster of media vultures are already swarming with cameras out and mics. Not even the holidays have given them anything better to do. She doesn't look up as they glide into the parking lot, Jonathan pulling up as close to the curb as he's able. He remains silent, standing by the door and giving her time to put on her coat and tie her scarf. Her natural urge, right now, is to deliberate. Craft a statement scrap for them to gnaw on and buy her time. She can't. Not when every ticking second adds more fuel to the worst scenario's fire. The bitter cold is a blessing compared to the flood of voices that crest through the open door.

"Catherine, _Catherine_ , do you know why your son would do this-"

"Mrs. Fox, what are your thoughts on the spike in hospital violence-"

"Catherine Avery, does this have anything to do with the Harper Avery scan-"

Jonathan takes her hand, helps her out gently and asks if she'd like accompaniment. She shakes her head, with a nod to stay with the car for now. They'll no doubt try to bribe him into confessing whatever they _think_ he's overheard while driving her, and to that she says, good damn luck. Catherine lifts her chin and stares down the clutter.

"...I'm going to have to kindly ask you to keep your attention on matters that _don't_ concern the minutia of my personal life. There's a lovely little homeless outreach center that needs attention for the holidays three blocks down. Be a dear and put them on the news circuit."

There's only so far they can follow. By the time she's reached the double-doors the security guards (of ready supply thanks to the new board initiative, what fortunate timing) bar their way. Judging by their exasperated tones, this has been a tug-of-war for hours. As she moves through Grey-Sloan the worst case scenario grows not hotter, but heavier. A mousy-haired resident tells her things she can hardly believe. The security guard on the second floor tells her things she can hardly believe. The psychiatrist tells her things she can hardly believe. It's all so very strange, so much so the dread takes a back seat to plain disbelief.

"He's in that room, down there." The on-call psychiatrist smiles softly, on the assumption she's in need of professional comfort. "Knock before you enter."

It's an odd request, but she nods. Catherine takes a moment to center herself, breathing in all the way to the soles of her feet to capture the bad energy. She knocks, quickly, then opens the door before a response can be given. The waiting room is empty, save for Jackson sitting at the little sofa, out of his lab coat and in a sweater and jeans, black jacket hanging on the sofa arm. He's here. He's _whole_. It's better than anything she could've dreamed up.

" _Jackson_." She gets on her knees, new tights be _damned_ , and hugs him tightly. "Oh, baby. I was so _worried_."

He doesn't hug her back. The man might as well be a cardboard cut-out for all he moves. Catherine pulls back, hands still gripping his shoulders ( _thank goodness he's here, still here-_ ), and observes him true.

"...Baby. What _happened?_ "

It's a Magic Eye painting. A hidden image amid all the chaos, only able to be sussed out with a careful eye. Jackson, a dignified doctor of a long and proud lineage, is slumped on the chair like so much discarded tinsel on the day after Christmas. Buried beneath the bandages and thousand-yard stare somewhere is her blue eyed baby boy, freckles dancing beneath his eyes and a game board clutched in both hands. Catherine blows out a sigh, happily trading a mother's biting fear for blessed exasperation.

"The cold shoulder isn't going to work on me, Jackson. I _patented_ it."

Jackson rubs his hand under his nose, sniffs and shifts in his seat. Staring straight through her. She repeats his name. Rubs a thumb on his sweater. It's like trying to rattle awake a ghost. She'd have better luck going to the Avery gravesite and stomping on the dirt.

"If you don't talk to me about what happened, you'll have to talk to someone else. That psychiatrist out there. An officer." She raises her eyebrows. "A lawyer?"

It's a cold look in his eyes, then. About as frosty as the ones she's had to build her career on. Any pride she could feel about that detail is buried, patted and slowly suffocated beneath the same growing dread she thought she left in the car.

"...About _what_ , Mom?"

Catherine leans back a little. This is what they're doing, then? Fine. She pulls up a nearby chair and sits across from him.

"Well, let's take stock. How about why you were reportedly outside waving glass in people's faces. Why you punched a security guard. Why you..." She trails off, bobs her head meaningfully for him to add something. _Anything_ other than more useless silence. "...broke a window?"

Jackson's gaze slides away. It's a shade akin to guilt, not quite acquiescence. Perhaps a shred of something else just as stubborn. He picks at the bandage on his arm. Rolls his jaw. Shifts.

"Jackson. Please. Tell me something, _anything_ , before I go on damage control."

Something in him flares up. It's an energy she can feel in the room, subtle as a flicker of a vein.

"...Damage control?"

"Yes, damage control. There are a _dozen_ reporters outside the hospital as we speak, with more to come over the next few days. Nobody in this damn city, or country, can keep their eyes and thoughts to themselves for a second. You know this better than most." It's a useless thing to bemoan. Raging at the world's injustices didn't keep her house sturdy or her family safe. "It's only going to get noisier from here, Jackson. All I want to know is that this, wherever it came from, _won't_ happen again. That this is the end of it and we can figure it out together."

Jackson rolls his jaw again, _finally_ makes eye contact. She's gotten through to him. At least, that's what she thinks, until:

"...Glass from the mountain top."

Catherine squints.

"What?"

"Everything's clearer, until it all just...scatters. _Shatters_. Whatever." He smiles, awfully, then rubs at his jaw. "God, whatever. Do what you want."

What _is_ this? It's like he's gone back in time to his most petulant teenage self, with a hearty dollop of spontaneous violence on top of the mess. Anger swells hot in her chest.

"What should I do, then? Say nothing and leave you to your own devices? I must say, that has worked out brilliant for you." She brushes her skirt down, not taking her gaze off him. "For Victoria. For _Maggie_."

 _That_ makes him flinch. As it should. Jackson's gaze darts away from her. He starts scratching at his jaw, enough to turn the skin red. Catherine reaches out a hand to make him stop, already-

"Don't _touch_ me."

Catherine pulls back. His mouth is twisted into a thin, _thin_ line, breathing sharp through his nose, a wild stare from a sudden stranger. She's going to get whiplash from all these mood swings. Their stareoff is interrupted by a deep voice from the door:

"Catherine."

Oh, heaven _help_ her, this was going to be a long week. Richard stands in the doorway, his carefully impassive face splintered with all the emotions he should know better than to try and hide from her.

"Can we talk outside a moment?"

She glances over her shoulder. Jackson is staring down the wall, now rubbing at his jaw over and over again. Her head shakes from side-to-side, a helpless, horrible wonder at the turn the day has taken.

"Is it safe to leave him alone?" She lowers her voice. " _Why_ is he doing that?"

"I'll send someone to keep watch." Richard takes her shoulders in a gesture that makes her spine quail dangerously. "We still need to offer a statement-"

" _Keep the door open_."

Catherine and Richard both turn, abruptly. Jackson isn't looking at them, plucking away at his bandage like a depressed street performer. To her surprise, Richard nods.

"Probably a good idea."

If anyone would like to give her the full picture, _now_ is the time. Catherine opens her mouth to protest, only to shut it when she sees the look on her husband's face. A look she knows _all_ too well, of a mountain being hastily swept beneath the molehill. Lord help her. Without another word she follows him outside (leaving the door open at a crack) and walks down the hall.

"...He isn't talking to me." She whispers the moment they stop, and, _damn_ , she hates how weak her voice sounds. Richard sounds nearly as helpless.

"He isn't talking to _me_ , either. At least, not willingly. He's been bad-tempered for a while. Distant. Moody. Thought it was more of the same. Didn't think it'd end up like this." Richard's voice dips, his head following suit in a slow, shameful motion. "God, I'm sorry, Catherine. If I had paid close enough attention I could've...told him to take leave, or something. Hell, I even _threatened_ him with it at one point-"

"You're not to blame, Richard. For all his talents he...was never very good at sharing what's on his mind. Not without fervent, _persistent_ egging."

The realization doesn't arrive immediately. It's a fierce frustration, at first. She never raised this man to shrug off his entire family on some invincibility facade! He was upper-class, not _Superman_. Then the first petal of self-awareness unfurls, a sarcastic addendum on that perfect icy look he gave her back in the waiting room and how very similar it looked to her own. Her self-righteous high withers at that. Grows weak. Cast in a growing shadow of a late, late, _late_ realization. Of all the times she told him to step up. To stop complaining. To do this better. Do this quicker. Smile. Sit straight. Get ready.

Another Magic Eye painting, this time inside her and asking for a second look. Was this an explosion of stress, of too many things going wrong and not enough going right? That strange fidgeting and his icy behavior shrapnel from the explosion just a few hours ago? Her instinct is to flick a hand, move on to the next theory, and it takes considerable effort to stay right where she is. No, that couldn't quite be it. His most stressed was still nothing he couldn't handle. He's shown this quite clearly over the years, bestowed of the classic Avery drive _and_ spine in hearty doses.

He's working on a patent for life-changing skin graft technology. He stepped up to the plate as a board-certified doctor. Scowled and muttered through it behind closed doors, yes, but _he stepped up_. He's since become a very active voting member on the board and ever proud representative of the Avery Foundation. Her son has braved fires without a second thought (twice), saved _countless_ lives, shown a grit that always threatened to rub off with the polish of wealth. If he was flippant to her, _wretchedly_ impulsive in his personal life, that was nothing she couldn't buff out, too.

"Bailey said to keep an eye on him. Said he freaked out while operating on a patient in her hyperbaric chamber." Richard sighs. "I didn't think much of it. I wonder..."

He _what?_ Catherine narrows her eyes.

"And why did he freak out?"

"I didn't ask."

Catherine stares. And yet. ...And _yet_. Perhaps a break is what he needed. A long, _long_ break.

"Going to have a word with that security guard. Frank, I think his name is." Richard mutters, weariness temporarily giving way for a dark frustration. "Maybe have another talk about mental health protocol with the whole team and what _not_ to do."

And she'll be there.

"I'll leave you to that, then. I'll be right back." She pats his chest, putting as much gratitude as she can into the motion, and tops it off with a kiss on his cheek. "If you can, wait here for me."

"Catherine, I think he needs some space-"

"I gave him too much space, I think." She pauses, then pulls him forward and kisses him again. Slower this time. "...Wait for me."

"...Of course." He takes her hand and kisses her palm. "Always."

The security guard Richard called in walks down the hallway, just in time. Part of the new security initiative, they tell her, and proceed to give her wispy condolences concerning her suddenly crazy, suddenly strange son. Catherine tamps down on the instinctual demur of appreciation, saving every last word in her chest for the long conversation she's about to have. After this she was going to sit down with Maggie and give the poor girl a little comfort. Treat her to a drink, if she was up for it. Then she needed alone time with Richard to wind down the night proper. Enjoy the calm before the storm.

When they walk inside, Jackson's gone.

***

She had to fall off this cloud eventually. She just didn't expect it to hit so _hard_.

One more crisis averted. Back to business as usual. Grey-Sloan was a hardy thing, less a medical facility and more a _beast_ , and, even after all this time, she can't help but marvel at it. This place has had entire _rooms_ caved in from extreme storms. It's seen people killed in its halls. Some violently. Some by pure, wretched circumstances. Shootings have happened. Fires have happened (and she was there for _one_ of those). Today was just another scratch on the beast's hide. More a gash, for her, but that wouldn't stop a thing.

_Wanna come with us for trivia night to unwind a little?, Link, sent 6:01 p.m._

_I'm not sure yet., Maggie, sent 6:02 p.m._

"Ma'am?"

Maggie hastily pockets her phone. The psychiatrist smiles. She's terse, yet patient, and it's hard not to be reminded of Koracick. Kind, yes, and with carefully drawn limits.

"I just need a little more information, Ms. Pierce, then I'll let you on your way. Is there anything else you can tell us about his behavior these past few weeks? Months, maybe? Anything odd you noticed while on-the-clock, unhealthy behavior, things like that...?"

"What...would you consider odd or unhealthy?" She asks, pointlessly. This wasn't quite an elephant in the room, not when this woman likely doesn't know her history with the man, but it was _damn_ close.

"You two have worked together several times before, right? I was told you've worked here for a few years now." She waits for her confirmation, then continues. "Regardless of whether or not you're close, you likely know his temperament. Lifestyle patterns. Think of mood swings, random irritability with no explanation, missing work a few too many days in a row. Substance abuse, perhaps, or skipping out on social functions and isolating himself. The telltale signs of mental illness have a way of slipping under our nose and being blamed on other things."

Maggie grips her phone so hard it creaks. ...Yeah. She had plenty.

Dumping her over a camping trip is probably a good place to start, their promise to build a life together stomped into ash and kicked into the breeze almost _overnight_. Sending her a curt text a week and a half later telling her to clear out her things before the weekend is another. Ah, rebounding with a woman he _barely_ knows and acting like they're the best of friends. A classic. Treating her like a stranger every time they crossed paths, even though he'd been one of her _best_ friends, a dear one who'd _been there?_

Been there, right by her side, when one of her childhood's biggest bullies came into the hospital seeking absolution. By her side, when her mother struggled and coughed and eventually died and sent the world permanently off its axis. Even after Sabi was put on _life support_. Even then! Her memory was a little fuzzy, but she's never forgotten how one minute she'd been the only person in the world, then the next he'd appeared to her like a ghost. After Meredith's hearing she'd slunk off to the hotel bar to slow the horrible truth, scribbling uselessly into a cocktail napkin and trying to figure out the second, millisecond and decisecond where it all went so _wrong_.

Jackson had appeared right by her side, gray as a sad day...and drove her home.

He'd carefully clicked the door shut after she fumbled the handle, lifting her coat from her shoulders and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He poured her a glass of sauvignon to replace the one she left at the bar, murmuring something about the brand that she doesn't remember. She'd laughed at something far too hard, the kind of laugh that comes from a desperate need to feel _anything_ other than misery. He'd turned the room's heat on low, curled by her on the couch and stroked her shoulder. Leaned in close enough to breathe in her air, staring at her with a seaglass gaze and looking like...looking like, for _just_ a second, he'd woken up after sleeping too long.

Then he dumped Victoria, too, and sent a chair through a window. Turns out she didn't actually know a thing about him.

"He'd been a little...distant, I guess. A little cold." Maggie shrugs and twists the hem of her coat. "We don't talk to each other much."

The psychiatrist writes it down. Shakes her hand once she's done. It's strangely warm. It takes another second for Maggie to realize it's because she's cold, and has been cold ever since she walked back inside.

"All right. Thank you for all you've done." The woman adds, offering one last sympathetic smile for the road, as smooth and practiced as her blazer. Maggie wishes she had half that composure right now. "I know you're a doctor who works in tense situations, but...not many would have the presence of mind to deescalate a situation like that. Especially for a co-worker. You did well."

It was nothing so impressive. She hadn't been afraid. At least, not like that. Afraid for _him_ , rather. Afraid of the hole she'd fallen into, a fathomless stretch that widened when he showed up on Meredith's porch that long and lonely night. Afraid of whether or not she'd stop sinking into his bottomless black. Jackson once made her feel safe. Now she doesn't know _what_ to feel. Maggie's mouth is opening before she can stop it.

"...Can I ask one more question?" The psychiatrist turns around, eyebrows raised. "How can someone be...mentally unwell, yet still seem perfectly fine?"

"I suppose like how someone can have bronchitis, but go a few minutes without coughing."

She departs to go speak with Schmitt, though not without a business card, because that's just good manners, perhaps. When Maggie leaves the room Owen is still recording recording statements with the security guards. Probably signing dotted lines to give testimonies to the future court case. Link takes Amelia home (visibly worried when she turns down a ride, too, and sweet enough not to pry) and she's alone outside in the autumn cold, standing in the bright square of Grey-Sloan's double-doors.

She wants to go hang out with them. She really does. She just...can't. Right now she needs some music, a glass of wine and a few hours buried in her notes. Oh, she misses Meredith. She misses her sister so hard it _hurts_. She'd never thought to be on the side of that glass, this horrible reality she's only seen in movies, evening specials on incarceration. Her calm practicality would be the perfect salve right about now. Maggie amuses herself with thoughts of Meredith's characteristic lisp. How it could make even the most horrible sounding sentences sound...palatable. Cute.

Time to dwell would come later. Alex was working an all-nighter and the kids needed a few hours of study-then-play before bed. Maggie sends a text to Jo that she'll be on her way to relieve her of babysitting duty, then pulls out her drawing pad and does a quick stress doodle for sanity's sake. Big curly hair. Fluffy beard. Side-part. Only one thing was certain in this whole mess: she wasn't letting this family down. She already got in practice breaking the hearts of her relatives and leaving them with a daughter who could, in the near future, give them _another_ reason to mourn.

Maggie grip on the tablet pen tightens, hard it enough it starts to bend. Then her phone buzzes.

_Maggie, have you seen Jackson? He disappeared out of nowhere!!, Catherine, sent 6:42 p.m._

_What?_ But...they apprehended him. Took him to the E.R. and tucked him behind a curtain. She'd watched as much as she could before the nurses barred her way. Maggie sends her a negative, then considers going inside and telling security. ...That might not be a good idea, either. Not with how eager they were to jump the man and live out whatever tough guy fantasy they were fed during training. Instead she goes to the receptionist desk and tells the clerk to inform the nursing staff, and leaves it at that.

At least, that's the goal.

Halfway to her car and the horror hits her square. ...Should she go look for him? Does she stay here for the night and hope he shows up? Maggie shifts uselessly in the middle of the parking lot, as quiet as it only can be, an odd hour matched with the sudden lull that follows a messy day. It could be like an Alzheimer's episode, where sometimes those afflicted forgot things, wandered off somewhere far. She's not sure that's how it works. Her hand shakes as she types in an inquiry for symptoms, shakes _harder_ when she sees all the different variables. Acute PTSD, CPTSD, PTSD with depression-

The sound of footsteps crunches through the empty lot. Her skin hikes with goosebumps. Maggie whirls around...and freezes at the sight of Jackson's face.

" _Holy-_ "

Jesus _Christ_. Maggie puts a (violently shaking) hand on her chest, the other slapping on some random car door to keep her balance. Despite the dark Jackson's sallow face is a beacon, caught stark between his black winter jacket and the drained glow of the hospital. Her eyes trail away from that gray gaze down to the rest of him, at horrible odds with the bloody scene not three hours ago. His left hand is wrapped up with a tidy bandage, peeking out beneath the sleeve in a sliver of white. There's a small bandage strip on his right cheekbone.

"What are you _doing_ here?"

This damn man isn't easy. Jackson doesn't speak, or even make a sound. Just stands there, swallows and stares, like she's a glass of water and he can't drink. The ground starts to sink beneath her all over again, threatening another fall. Maggie bites her lip, hard enough to taste copper.

"Jackson...no. You can't do this. You can't _do_ this, just show up when you need me and vanish when you don't-"

"I need a ride."

"I... _what?_ "

For a few burning seconds she just stands and gapes. The anger's damn near hot enough to make the winter night feel cozy. ...He wants a _ride?_ A goddamn ride, after a day like this? She looks around, waiting for the punchline to jump out from behind a bush.

"...A ride? Seriously?" She lets out a breathless scoff. "Don't you have a car? Or a chauffeur you can summon with a snap of your fingers?"

Jackson slides a hand over his head, grips his jaw like it's hurting him. Without meaning to she peers closer (checking to make sure there's no glass _there_ , too).

"Please."

The fire in her chest withers. It doesn't go out, _hasn't_ gone out since he left her in the dust and didn't look back, but...it shrinks. Sputters and pops until it's a small, confused ember in the pit of her stomach, too weak to brown a marshmallow. She tries to lean into his gaze.

"People are looking for you. Your mother has been texting me like crazy." Maggie drops her shoulders helplessly when Jackson just offers a vague nod, as if she just told him the weather forecast for the week. "What...the _hell_ happened today?"

To his (very small) credit, Jackson seems to think about it. His gaze drifts to the left, then to the right. He scratches his head, then rubs his nose.

"I don't...really remember." He starts to reach for the strip on his cheekbone, then stops. "She said I will, probably..."

"Who's 'she'?"

"The, uh..." He casts a glance over one shoulder, as if expecting them to burst out of the double-doors any second. Each syllable is picked through like mines in a field. "...psychiatrist."

Maggie drags both hands down her face. Shit. Looks like wine and a research freefall isn't in the cards yet. Not when he's looking like he still has no earthly clue where the hell he is _or_ how he got here. She peers through her fingers, watching Jackson fiddle with his bandage, picking at it and staring into the black just beyond the parking lot lights. Maybe she should get him in the car, then call someone. A professional trained to handle this. The psychiatrist is still there, as far as she knows. It's a sound idea, but, for some reason, a part of her rankles at the idea.

He abandoned her in the cold. It'd be _perfect_ justice with a heaping dose of irony to do the same here, righteous karma straight out of the Bible he adopted. And...yet. Despite all that, something about that doesn't...feel right.

It's time for logistics. He had a textbook example of a psychotic breakdown and is probably dissociating as they speak (she's familiar with the sensation, once, when her mother coughed blood during a group dinner-). She's no psychologist, but she's also no spring chicken. He's asking for help, in his infuriatingly vague sort of way, and the fact Catherine isn't here with him is probably ( _definitely_ ) not an accident. He's gone from a Jackson she thought she knew to a Jackson she absolutely doesn't. A man who turned to frost overnight.

"...Okay." Maggie nods, swallowing back the rest of the words with significant effort. "Okay. I'll give you a ride. Home, then?" When he doesn't respond she reaches out, without thinking. "Jackson-"

Her fingertips have hardly brushed his coat before he _jerks_ back, blank expression traded for a deer-in-headlights look that's too close to earlier for comfort. It's then and there a horrible understanding flickers. That the tattered shreds of what they had might've been ripped up by something else entirely.

"Jackson?" She repeats, carefully. "Do you need me to take you home?"

"...No..."

"Do you want...to go stay with family?"

The look he gives her, for once, needs no further explanation. Okay. She can do this, too. Maggie sends Catherine a quick text ( _Found Jackson. Taking him home in a bit. I'll keep in touch._ ), then apologizes to Jo for coming home a little late ( _I promise I'll make it up to you. I couldn't dream of a scenario this terrible._ ). She walks over to her car(double-checking over her shoulder to make sure he's following) and unlocks both doors.

"Okay. Um. Why...don't we go grab a bite to eat, then?" Amelia would tell her she's being _way_ too nice now, but, well. She's not here. "I'm starving."

Jackson slides into the passenger seat and fiddles with the seatbelt, then slumps against the door. Maggie gets in, taps her finger on the steering wheel. Waits a few seconds, then tries again.

"You...in the mood for Mexican?"

He makes a scraped little noise under his breath. Well. It's as much of an answer as she'll get tonight.

"All right."

For a second she wishes she had a self-driving car, because the mere prospect of navigating the road with her shaking hands and this smoke puff of a man to her right sounds impossible. Fortunately, her favorite burrito stand isn't far from the hospital. When they arrive it has a decent line built up, everyone chattering their heads off and smoking so much the air is grey, but it's the good stuff, and she _deserves_ the good stuff. Maggie pulls into a lot nearby (mercifully empty, must be a day shift office), then turns the engine off.

"Stay here where it's warm, I'll be back in a bit."

He doesn't move, or speak, but she didn't expect him to.

If heaven is a thing that exists, it would smell of red peppers, cilantro and cheese. Maggie shuffles to push back the cold, eagerly waiting for the leftover heat from the line to warm her up. By the looks of it many of the people here are college regulars too tired to make dinner. When she checks her phone Catherine has blown up her messages: asking how the hell he snuck out, where they are, that she's _so sorry_ she's going through this. Her heart twists miserably. ...God. Seeing this unflappable woman nearly falling apart in real time is enough to make her almost forgo the food and head straight back to Grey-Sloan.

Maggie presses the edge of the phone to her forehead and sighs. Repeats a feel-good mantra to keep her head in the game. Wine and research. Wine and research.

" _Mm_ -mm. Good food _and_ cute girls in one spot?"

Maggie slowly looks up, then over her shoulder. The man in line behind her is leaning in, close enough for her to smell the cigarettes on his breath. She's never seen him before, because she's sure she would've recognized _that_ mole.

"...I guess."

"Nah, ain't no guess." He licks at browning teeth. "What're you getting, sweetheart?"

"Burritos."

"Burritos?" God, she _hates_ it when they do that. Sleazy men love to repeat whatever a woman says with an overly jolly tone, as if they've known each other for more than thirty seconds and needed to catch up. "That why you thick as hell?"

Maggie's smile cracks. ... _Wine and research_.

"...One's for a friend."

He takes that as some sort of sign he got to second base, leaning in another hair too close, close enough to make her skin prickle grossly. Really? This day didn't have enough shitballs to fling at her? Maggie opens her mouth to tell him to _back off_...then slowly shuts it when Jackson steps between them.

"Hey, man, excuse you-" The man starts, indignant-

-then snaps his jaw shut so hard and so swift she can hear the _clack_. Jackson's expression is still dead on arrival, but his gaze is pure _steel_. The mutters down the line die down into a long, awkward silence. When the man makes no move to square up (bravado more a theory), Jackson wordlessly slides his hand around her waist, pulling her close to his side. ...Oh. _Oh._ Maggie draws her shoulders back and follows the facade, tries to keep the shock off her face, despite the fact her heart is pounding a pattern into her ribcage. As if to stomp dead any lingering possibility Jackson leans in, close enough for his warm breath to dust her cheek.

"Got everything?"

Coffee. Cologne. The tang of antiseptic and leftover panic sweat. Suddenly he's all she can smell, _and_. Maggie tries to work her mouth, to no avail. Her knees don't quite feel like working and her heart is trying to shimmy up her throat. She glances to the workers (focusing hard on their tasks), then to the line (currently staring, not all of them at her). When Jackson glances down at his phone with his free hand, as casual as if nothing had happened at all, a memory squeezes through the (rapidly) thinning space between their sides, slow and warm.

_"Wait, **what?** Jackson attacked you?"_

_"See, when you put it like that it sounds weird."_

_Gosh, it's just one thing after another. Sometimes it feels less like she signed up for a new full-time and more like she got pulled into the Truman Show. Meredith snickers, waving her drink at Alex's face and nearly spilling it onto the tablecloth when he pushes her hand away. The classic Mer sign of too much bubbly. Maggie takes another hearty sip herself, trying to hold back her laughter for Alex's sake._

_"Yeah, yeah." He scoffs. "Easy to laugh when you didn't have a cracked jaw."_

_"Come on, you were fine. Didn't you break the table?" Meredith presses when he rolls his eyes. "Heard it was a very nice one."_

_"See, I've seen him run into a burning building. Actually seen it." Maggie adds with a snort, scrubbing at her nose when it burns. "And he still doesn't seem like the type."_

_Alex snatches Meredith's cup and holds it out of arm's length like a petty Statue Of Liberty. She's so drunk she actually tries to fight him for it, holding on to one of his shoulders and groping uselessly with the other._

_"Yeah, don't be fooled by his babyface. Guy went from a pretty boy to a Rottweiler at the drop of a hat."_

"Maggie."

...Jackson is smiling. At least, as much as he can seem to muster, the slope to his lips short and crooked. A percentile flicker, a phone battery on its last legs. Maggie's nod boots up slower than dial-up, the warmth of his side starting to burn. Right. He asked her something, and for a moment, she turned into him.

"Oh. Yeah. Got, um. The spicy veggie and the chicken cilantro."

The line sways with another awkward movement. The wind itself is the loudest thing here, right until a catty neighbor at the nearby apartment complex yells at someone across the street and jogs everyone out of their nosy stupor. What _was_ it with her and awkward food stand encounters? Then, mercifully, the cashier hands her a hot, heavy paper bag, asking her if she'd like a drink or any chips. Maggie shakes her head immediately. The sooner they get the basics, the sooner they can leave. Her catcaller for the evening, all the while, remains _quite_ invested in something on his phone.

"That'll be $12.50, ma'am." They pull out a wad of napkins for her. Maggie tries to dig a shaking hand into her purse (it's just cold, that's all). Jackson straightens up.

"...I got it."

"No, it's okay, I..." Maggie smiles and hands him the bag. He doesn't take it. "Just trying to grab my wallet, I haven't organized this thing in days-"

"It's fine."

Jackson tugs out his phone, flips the back open and pulls out a bill. The poor cashier clearly doesn't get tipped enough, because they go from a little uncomfortable to visibly confused, eyes bulging into dinner plates. Before Maggie ask _just how much he paid for two street burritos_ , Jackson _then_ takes the bag and walks her back to the car. Maggie clutches the paper bag to her chest. The burritos are so hot they're practically throbbing, and yet, it's nothing compared to the arm around her shoulders.

"You can, um..." She clears her throat. It doesn't unstick. "Choose whichever one. I'm fine with either."

Jackson glances off at something in the street.

"Same."

When they reach the car she pulls away as gently as she can. It's not that she doesn't appreciate his help. She just wishes he could've been like this three months ago. ...Still.

"...Thank you."

Jackson slides into the car and clicks the door shut.

"Yeah."

Then he's looking out the window and back to gone.

***

It's been way too long since she's sat down and taken in the sights.

Her feet ache at the thought. These past few weeks she's either been shuffling the kids off to school with Amelia _or_ she's at work, poring over her notes to make sure there isn't one iota of essential information keeping her from a successful case. Sometimes it feels like the whole word is just passing her by. This little strip of park in-between the street is the perfect view to see the city lights, starting to flicker on with a procedural, hypnotic glow. If she doesn't breathe she can pretend she's in space, floating through the gravitational pull with the moon on one side and the sun on the other.

Then the bench creaks with another person's weight, and she comes back down to reality more like a comet.

Jackson wolfs down his food, doing his best impression of a drowning man and hardly taking a breath in-between bites. Maggie picks at the paper wrapping, watching him with a queasy mixture of apprehension and confusion. Christ. The last thing she needs right now is a violent meltdown- _then_ -asphyxiation by Mexican cuisine.

"Uh, when's...the last time you ate?" She winces when he just swallows a bite whole. "Three years ago?"

She mentally shakes herself. Why the hell is she asking? It's not something she cares about. Come to think of it, why is she even _here?_ They weren't family anymore. Not even friends. She'd clarified as much outside the front doors of the hospital not three months ago, her broken heart and mouth having gladly traded places. At _best_ she's this man's chauffeur, ferrying him from the hospital to a food stand to probably somewhere else, depending on whatever else life planned on chucking at her. Jackson doesn't make eye contact, mumbling around his mouthful.

"Dunno."

Great. At this rate she'll be a detective, too. Maggie sighs and finally bites into her burrito. _God_ , it's good. For a second she completely forgets about the day and soaks in the flavor of cilantro and black beans.

" _Mmf_. That burrito stand should win the Guinness World Records for best street food ever." She moans, because she can't help herself. Jackson grunts.

"Mm."

"I mean, I've only been there twice, but now it's all I can think about on my lunch break."

"You can tell it's fresh." He adds, licking sour cream off his thumb. Maggie gapes.

"Right? You _can_. But somehow, they do it better. I mean, I make burritos at home all the time and they never taste like this."

"It's the sauce." He swallows hard, sighs out steam, tilts his head for a better angle and dives in again. Maggie nods, fiercely...then feels her heart sink ridiculously when he doesn't add anything else. She reaches for a napkin and dabs at her mouth. Tries to think of a way to draw him out into the open again and get some closure on this cursed evening.

"Jackson, will you-"

"I'm under arrest."

-and the food turns to sand in her mouth.

"...What?"

Jackson takes another huge bite. Talks around it.

"Psychiatrist said it's unlikely I'll see jail time. It's a possibility, though, since I didn't seek out professional help and have no record. So...either I lose my license and go to jail or I'm committed for being crazy. She wasn't a lawyer. Just shared what she's seen." He says it all so mechanically. As matter-of-fact as if he were reading the newspaper. He wipes his uninjured hand across his mouth. "You don't have to worry about running into me anymore."

Maggie stares, heartbeat roaring in her ears and pushing the city a light year away.

...So that's it, then. That's just _that_. He's just going to treat it all like water under the bridge. There's nothing he could do, except for the little fact he had all the resources and people and time in the _world_. Jackson Avery, rich boy supreme and coward extraordinaire. Jackson Avery, the martyr she never asked for and kept getting. Why wasn't he more upset? It's not fair. _It's not fair._ She wants to scream at him to get his head together. To stop throwing himself into literal and metaphorical fires! She should get up, tell him to use the damn bus, and walk away.

She doesn't do any of these things. Instead she just feels numb and fucking sad.

"...Who said I was worried about running into you at work?" Maggie mutters, wiping the cold (and growing burn) from her nose. "DeLuca and I used to date and I didn't freak out about that." She crinkles back the wrapper, takes a bite she doesn't care for anymore. "I've left you alone. Don't pretend I haven't."

A cold breeze sifts between them. It's getting late. Jackson glances sidelong at her. It's getting dark, too, but those highbeam eyes glint as bright as ever, glittering with some emotion or another that'll probably dissipate before she can pin it down. Her anger rises and crests the longer the silence drags out. It hits a high, _ugly_ crescendo when he just peels back his wrapper a little more, meticulous and slow around his injured hand, more propping the food up than holding it. Maggie waves her burrito.

"God, what is _with_ you? Are you going to actually talk like a normal person or just sit there like-" -and she's completely forgotten about oily fingers, apparently, because one second her burrito is in her hand and the next second it's splattered on the ground. Her anger sputters out. "...Oh."

They both stare at the mess in the grass for a few long, ticking seconds. ...Then, in what probably hurts more than he means it to, Jackson holds out the rest of his. Maggie takes it (careful not to touch him) and quietly eats the rest. He licks the rest from his fingers and stares off into his favorite pocket of everything and nothing.

"Need a ride back?" She says, once she's done.

"Please."

Well. If there's _one_ thing he didn't abandon, it's his manners.

The drive back could redefine silence. She's not even sure if he's awake (and she definitely doesn't glance over to check). Maggie doesn't talk. Not when they hit a red light. Not when they pull up to his apartment complex. If she does, she might mourn him. Mourn him twice in one evening: first when he dragged red lines over his face, second when he held his hand to her lower back and steered her away from a food cart customer who saw her as little more than a piece of meat. They'd all been different men, and she hadn't known a single one.

When they arrive Jackson doesn't go inside. Just stands on the sidewalk to stare up at his apartment window, his uncertain little movements keeping him from becoming another street shadow. The him and her of a better year are on this sidewalk, too. The Maggie That Hadn't Been Crushed, opening the car door and offers him to stay with her, until _he_ can think clearly, until _her_ head can stop spinning. The Maggie Who Thought Her Future Came In Two, following him up to his place and cuddling on the couch like that one time so long ago, when he'd returned from a hiking trip with more questions than answers.

She doesn't want to admit it, but those Maggies were still in her. Dying, but not quite dead. She works up the breath to speak, something stupid she knows she'll regret. Then Jackson turns around, locks eyes with her, and she can't.

"Maggie-"

" _No_. You're _not_ getting the final word here." Neither is she, not truly. Even if she let it all spill, there's no guarantee he'd hear her. She twists the key in the ignition. "Call your mother, she's worried sick about you. Stay home tonight. Get some help. Get..." The burn that grew on the park bench coming back in full force to rattle the breath from her lungs. "...Just get some _help_."

Maggie snaps the door shut, pulls out and doesn't look back, gripping the steering wheel so tight it'll be seen tomorrow morning. Maybe what she's doing is another cut on top of a dozen, but that's what happens when someone is fractured into a thousand pieces.

***

Love was wind. Heavy and fleeting, found everywhere even when unseen. It could be cold enough to usher people toward the wrong shelter, just as soon as breathe life into the indifferent and the forgetful.

It was one of the first things she ever taught her, nevermind that it had been a dwindling ebb from the start, a perpetual motion that only became heavy not when sung, but when _felt_. Infinite wisdom is forever a sweetness, and it's only the fact it can't _yet_ be shared that it aches. For now, the infinite wisdom that pain and joy dance together is kept from the man in black, trudging upstairs to his cold apartment in a daze that chokes. The infinite wisdom that forgiveness is a mercy to one's self isn't known to the dearest one fleeing home, to scatter apart where no eyes could see.

She's wind, and these two are her quivering autumn, shedding red to white.

* * *

_When you find meaning, you find direction. Even if it means turning tail and running the other way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a loose reference to the song 'Back To Good' by Matchbox 20. Oh, they had _so_ many great mental health jams back in the day.
> 
> Fun fact: I had a _very_ elaborate dream that inspired some of this story, one that centered on Jackson and Catherine (with Alex, Webber and his biological father showing up at various points). It was so vivid it felt like watching a (n above average) episode of the show. The 'glass from the mountaintop' line came from the dream, too, and let me say, I _do_ appreciate my subconscious doing a little work for me on the side. Work smarter, not harder!
> 
> taps temple
> 
> For all my bitter, bitter rants about this awful new season, I still love this show. I haven't even been splashing in this pool as long as others have (I only started watching at the beginning of this year), but it's been my comfort food ever since I moved to a new apartment. It's a drama _just_ emotional and sincere enough for me to lose myself in, just light-hearted and snarky and simple enough not to think too hard. That's worth its weight in gold, particularly for someone with a crazy brain.
> 
> Also: thank you _all_ for your sweet comments. I always get excited to pull up my inbox and read your thoughts. I'm probably going to start putting trigger warnings on each individual chapter because this series is going to keep exploring difficult issues (with eventual catharsis never ye fear), but until then, please keep an eye on those tags.


	4. these smudges

**Song Inspiration:** "Nerve (Acoustic)" by Jordan Rakei

*

_once I borrowed the canvas to my lover's heart_

_but the stone was too full, and that envelope had a letter_

_in that scarcely room_

* * *

_Getting the picture perfect face is a lifelong goal of many._

_While plastic surgery can be used to cure a patient's sleep apnea or piece their throat back together, its most well-known purpose is for beauty. People will spend thousands, tens of thousands, to get the nose or lips they want. To finally face who they've always seen in the mirror. No two reasons are the same. Low self-esteem, personal taste, the suffocation of mainstream beauty standards...they're all common and they're all valid._

_When your image is a public one, having anything less than the perfect face isn't an option._

* * *

It's not working. Well, _that's_ a bad sign.

Maggie stamps two hands on her hips and stares hard at the colorful cloister strewn before her. Her mother liked to call this sort of thing 'a tsunami to the head', a phrase she made up during her first year in Hawaii. It's how she referred to the phenomenon of getting sucked into a task. For some it could be a clay art project. For others it could be taking care of a friend while they're struggling through a cold. It was that sweeping, passionate shrinking of the world at large, a tsunami that reared up and engulfed a person whole. For her, it's hearts. Hearts, hearts, hearts, as _far_ as the eye could see.

Just one problem. There are sketches and diagrams and high-quality full-color photos of hearts _all over the bed_ , yet she's still aware of her immediate surroundings. She even threw on some sticky notes and her phone (currently set to a medical wikia), filling up so much of the bed the blanket can't even be seen at the corners. It's so close. She can feel the tickle of passion, like the smell of rain, but not a single drop falls. She's _still_ not drowning hard enough.

"Aunt Maggie, are we going to leave soon?"

Maggie looks up. Zola is holding onto the door handle, twisting it between her hands and watching her with an expression that's _far_ too shrewd. She's got on her flower dress and pink leggings, a bow sitting crooked in her curls. Her first instinct is to go straighten it, but upon second glance, it's actually kind of cute.

"Hey, Zozo." Maggie reaches toward the mess, then freezes. ...Not yet. "You just about ready for the party?"

"Yeah." She walks over and peers at the strategic disarray. "What're you _doing?_ "

A little magic trick passed down in the family that _should_ be helping ground her by _not_ grounding her. Not that she believed in magic of any sort, or even the softest of superstitions. This was a professional ritual. She's been familiar with it since she was a tween, cramming for three exams at once. It's no reason to panic. Not at all! It's just that she _really_ needs it to work. If it doesn't, she'll have to face up to the fact another person she cared about (that she wasn't supposed to, not _anymore_ ) has been sent away.

Right along with Meredith. Right along with Sabi. She doesn't believe in magic, but she _needs this to work_. The tsunami rises and rises, less a metaphor and now a burning pressure rising to her eyes. It crashes and fizzles into nothing when Zola gives her hand a soft squeeze.

"We should sit and talk about how we feel. If we don't, we'll turn into soda cans."

Maggie cocks her head.

"...Soda cans?"

"If you shake up a can, then try to open it later, it'll explode. Even if you let it sit for a while." The girl becomes as solemn as a preacher. "I don't want you to explode."

Before she can ask where she picked up such an impressive nugget of wisdom she's bouncing out of the room. Maggie turns back and stares at the bed, eyes darting back and forth for the missing piece, though at this point it's about as moot a point as trying to sprout wings and fly away. She might have to go full science weirdo and fill up the floor, too. Before she knows it her niece makes her way back up, a purple journal clutched in her hands.

"Here." She holds it out. It has one of those cute gel covers, where a person could push around the glitter inside. "You should keep a diary. Uncle Alex got me a pack of new ones a few days ago. You can have this one."

Oh, sheesh. She's _definitely_ letting herself go if a seven year-old is trying to stop the flood. Maggie spares a thought for the flexibility of water metaphors and takes it.

"Thanks, sweetie. I'll write some stuff in it today. We can show each other what we've done." Maggie flips through the pages, leaning in to enjoy that sweet fresh book smell. "Though most of mine will be mechanical terminology and number-crunching."

"I'm used to that from Mom." Zola says, simply, and tugs her to come downstairs.

Thank _goodness_ for Alex. He already picked up Bailey and Ellis, leaving her with the slightly less daunting task of managing Zola for just one more hour. As if determined to push this point forward Amelia is bundled up on the couch, brown hair barely poking out of her mound of pillows. There's a big bowl of Chex Mix to her right and a jug of orange-juice (half-full, probably a little warm at this point) to her left. The sisterhouse is starting to creak under the uneven weight of Meredith's absence. Not break, not with _their_ support system, but she's feeling the buckle.

"Going to stay home today?" Maggie asks, trying not to grin at Amelia's moody glance over the crest of blankets. It's like peeking at a very haggard, very tired bear.

"If this baby kicks me in the lungs one more time I'm going to turn into _Godzilla_."

"Babies can't do that." Zola says with a frown. Amelia hisses.

" _This baby can._ "

Maggie grabs Zola's fluffy pink coat (perfect for that dress, Meredith always knew how to accessorize-) and reaches for her own. Just a hop-skip over to Zola's friend's house, then she had all the time in the _world_ to bury her head in heart research. In-between shrugging on her cardigan the television's words connect with her ears.

" _Grey-Sloan has been the target of some very difficult events these past few years, from a fire that took out several rooms on the upper floor to a scandal involving one of the hospital's primary founders, Harper Avery..._ "

"...What're you watching?" She asks, tongue growing thick and weirdly numb. Amelia snakes a hand out for a fistful of Chex Mix, the blanket mound not quite hiding the apprehension in her eyes.

"News coverage..." She takes a messy bite. "...of Grey-Sloan."

Zola gives Maggie's hand another tug. Maggie doesn't move, staring at the television, a slow crane shot of the hospital's front doors under a bright weekday sun.

" _For those that don't know, one of the hospital's most well-known doctors, Jackson Avery, plastic surgeon and son of Catherine Fox of the Avery Foundation, was placed under arrest_."

***

Bed made and trash thrown out. Check.

Pamphlets reviewed and clock-in reviewed. Check.

Eat lunch. ...In-progress.

"Son, you're skin and _bones_." Darla bares a snaggletoothed smile and nudges his half-eaten salad his way. She probably took a bite when he wasn't looking. "Remind me of Davey. Ain't ate nothin' but pizza rolls and henny."

Jackson nudges it back, assures he's actually getting _quite_ full, and drinks water instead.

Life is a blur.

The Avery family lawyer had to reach out to an attorney that specializes in mental health-related cases. It's the first time in the family's history this has _ever_ been done. He'd never given it much thought, his head full up on historical achievements and dramatic decrees. His mother was, and _is_ , a trailblazer in just about every category that mattered. Even his grandfather's filthy memory had a few gold medals attached, his father long since the diametric opposite. Less morally bankrupt _and_ less devoted.

Jackson Avery, overnight, had become a pioneer for spectacular lost causes.

The days leading up to the court case his dreams were a mess of bedsheets and terminology, state laws and half-bitten entreaties. His mother insisted on him staying at her house, Frank always hovering in his peripheries with what couldn't be brushed off as professional concern. At least his grandfather was no longer around to cuss him out, and it had been an ongoing blessing he didn't supplement with a prayer. Not with the karma he's racked up. Jackson had spent most of his free time staring at the television, with intermittent dozes on the couch and the occasional shot of whiskey tossed back in-between.

On the day of the hearing he picked a slate-grey suit, somber and safe, and let Frank shine his shoes. Before he entered the courtroom he had to piss into a cup. Had to get checked for weapons, asked questions to determine his mental state, swear in front of officials and stiff-lipped security to tell the truth and _only_ the truth. His mother was there. Richard was there. Frank, Rose and Norbert were there (the latter who told him he should consider growing his hair out again). There was nobody from Grey-Sloan or Pac North, not patients _or_ doctors. It was one of the few things in the past few months that went right.

In a room of polished wood and pressed suits, he smelled antiseptic. Smoke and blood. It'd been a harder endeavor than even his first solo plastics surgery just to stay still, his urge to move or claw at his jaw making him miss out on several things said, and there were many.

The judge determined him guilty of public disturbance, aggravated assault and reckless endangerment, with a jail sentence of one year. At least, that's what he _would've_ gotten, if not for his lawyer's meticulously crafted insanity defense. The term was muffled. Cotton in his ears whenever it hit the air (and it did, repeatedly, wooden walls echoing ' _insanity_ ' and ' _hallucinate_ ' and ' _panic_ ' in a semantic satiation that throbbed). He was told his medical license would be temporarily suspended, only reinstated once he served six months at a psychiatric ward, with potential early leave for good behavior.

The gavel clapped, it sounded like a gunshot, and his whole body turned to static. In the fuzz his mother had hugged him tightly, eyes glittering with success, gleaming scrutiny between waves of pressed hair. He'd never felt drier.

" _The court dismisses you and thanks you for a job well done._ "

The first day at Western Roth he was assessed for narcotic or alcoholic substances, hovering in a limbo between medical royalty and a Greek tragedy.

" _Dr. Fox. Dr. Avery. It's **very** good to meet you both._"

His mother stayed in the lobby to look over his paperwork as the medical staff moved down the on-boarding checklist. They waved a flashlight in his eyes. Had him piss into a cup (again). Sat him down in a room filled with bland pastel flowers and asked a hundred questions to confirm he was still on the planet Earth (again). When he walked back out he thought he saw tears on his mother's face, even though crying hadn't been a thing with her since he was small (and hardly then). The deja vu was so stark he'd thought, for a moment, the world had started running backwards.

When all was finished they took his photo, and told him to smile.

' _We're relatively new compared to other psychiatric facilities, Dr. Fox. We operate in a sort of...in-between. The middleground between a halfway house and a traditional ward._ ', the on-site doctor had explained, puffed up with barely concealed pride at having two industry celebrities under one roof. ' _It's for the best. Far too many mental hospitals are, mm...rather outdated. New technology and sharper PR, for sure, but it's all built on a crumbling foundation. Virtual jail cells. We create temporary homes, a community, with the end goal to make recovery a little warmer. I understand if you have reservations. We're not here to tell you what we do, but show you._ '

It was a decent speech. Almost decent enough for Catherine Fox, who had listened politely with both hands in her lap, then just as politely grilled the man on day-to-day procedure. She asked him about the credentials of the psychotherapists, of the nurses and the emergency crew. All three of them took a tour around the facility (two of them, he'd trailed behind a pace like a child), then the grounds, as meticulously tended to as the gated communities he grew up in. At one point they walked past a young patient sitting in the grass with her head in her knees, bawling with an on-site nurse rubbing her shoulders.

He shook some hands. Said a few polite words he doesn't remember. Then his mother kissed him on the cheek and left him in a little beige room with his bag, a bed and his new pamphlets. His new home away from home.

' _I hope you enjoy your stay, Dr. Avery. If you have any questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to contact me._ '

The second day he was assigned to Christopher Barnes, a psychotherapist who had previously worked as a doctor abroad in a dozen countries. His hair is in perpetual 50's waves and, according to the other patients, he always arrives to work in a different three-piece suit; sometimes olive as a vine, other times a classic brown. He reminds him a little of of his uncle Norbert, a quirky man a little out of time and space. Barnes, though, is more suave and unhurried. Perpetually three steps ahead and yet, somehow, looking like he's taking his time. It's annoying, if he's being entirely honest, and ever since the on-boarding meeting Jackson makes it a point not to make too much eye contact.

' _Most here call me Barnes for short. Just don't start with that 'sir' nonsense or we'll be starting off this relationship with a firm step backwards.' He's always writing down notes on a paper pad, old-fashioned to the core. Not always while looking at the page, either. It's a little surreal. ' What should I call you?_ '

' _My name._ '

' _Well, your mother calls you Jackson. All the nurses here call you 'isn't that Dr. Avery from Grey-Sloan' or 'gosh, he's handsome'. I prefer not to jump to conclusions in my line of work._ '

' _Jackson._ '

' _Well, it's nice to meet you, Jackson. How long will we be doing this for?_ '

Six months.

He'll be here for six months, for the rest of fall bleeding into winter bleeding into spring, time with his family sliced into monitored intervals under a new roof unless he can prove he's sane enough for an off-site visit. Sane enough to save a life. Sane enough to live his own. Life is a blur, and yet, the hours never seem to move. The third day he picks at a decent-enough lunch in the cafeteria, talks with his therapist about the difference between PTSD and CPTSD, then retreats to his room to sit on his bed. He falls asleep somewhere in-between scratching at his face and missing his daughter, waking up in a stiff position at three in the morning, neck aching and head empty.

Trying to understand when it all started falling apart.

***

September 27th, 2019:

_visited the game room. left. jogged around the grounds. napped. Trigger: none_

_what the hell else am i supposed to say_

_none of this was supposed to happen_

*

For a supposed transition from hell to limbo, the flames sure feel the same.

The first two weeks are a lesson in frustration, though not for reasons he's used to. He's accustomed to strict schedules. It's nothing _new_ having to clock in, clock out, maintain a rigorous set of safety standards and general detachment. Having to spill his guts for an hour and a half three times per week, though...it grinds his _teeth_. The constant check-ups to make sure he's clean, without weapons, hasn't hurt himself. Patients staring at him, nurses tip-toeing around him. No work to distract, no freedom to do whatever he can until the ache dulls...it'll all drive him crazier sooner than any waking nightmare _ever_ will.

And of those, he gets plenty.

Psychology vocabulary is slapped on a patient report he's encouraged to review frequently. Compartmentalization. Temporary amnesia. Auditory and tactile hallucinations. Intrusive memory. Triggers. Compulsions. Barnes tells him in their first session to record everything he thinks and feels in a journal; hands him pink and green sheets that reminds him of elementary school homework, with checklists and clip art trying to bottle up insanity into something palatable. He also tells him his handwriting looks like macaroni pasta. Jackson waits for the day he's told his mental health issues are caused by being on his phone too often (though the ward keeps phone usage to a minimum of an hour or two).

The other patients are (thankfully) unaware of who he is, while the nurses are _extremely_ aware and treat him like a walking billboard, awkwardly staring in the hallway or muttering just out of earshot.

" _What? No, that can't be him. Jackson Avery?_ "

" _It is. His mother came here, too. That whole family is gorgeous._ "

He used to be able to make friends easily. It's hard, now.

" _Jackson? Jackson Avery? Sorry, I'm a fan of your work, um...okay, this is weird, could I just...ask a few questions?_ "

" _Please ignore her. She tried to win a Harper Avery award, back when that was a thing. ...Sorry, is that too soon?_ "

They talk to him, and he responds. Smiles, but not much. Eventually everyone drifts away from him, keeping just outside the glass that's towered larger and larger. Collectively getting the clue that he's anyone _but_ Jackson Avery, or any Avery at all.

" _Jackson, who's going to operate on Dr. Shepherd?"_

" _Jackson, clamp the hilum so you can get control of the hemorrhage so I can get better visualization._ "

Outside of Barnes, just two break the pattern. There's Hina, a part-time nurse who treats him with the same polite indifference she treats everyone, and Darla, a patient who _might_ just be older than Bohkee. She's _quite_ familiar with Western Roth thanks to growing dementia and a habit of pickpocketing anything that's not nailed down (including his watch, at one point). Since the fifth day she's latched onto him like a tick, with a bark of _son, c'mere_ that always makes a muscle in his neck twitch. She doesn't _seem_ like the type his mother would hire on the down low to keep an eye on him, but Catherine Fox was nothing if not as crafty as her name.

Today is set to be like the ones before. Structured and safe and buzzing with a dullness that clashes with the organized chaos of the hospital. The chaos he _craves_. The main lobby is where patients pretend they're not cobbled away in a borderline assisted living home, watching television, reading or playing games. It's all...so strange. He's gone from strolling through pristine hallways with his head held high to creeping in corners like a cryptid, dreading a knowing glance or more than three words at a time. Jackson finds a corner away from the seats and reconfigures his watch, feigning concentration to dissuade interest.

 _God_. He needs...a _project_. He needs to work his fingertips into the shredded muscle of someone's extensors, study the unique curvature of a patient's procerus. Jackson sets the timer, then glances outside. He has _just_ enough time he could sneak in a quick jog. The itch always gets worse before a sitdown. Until he gets another medical project to focus that energy with, he has to make do with whatever distraction he's allowed. It's to the point he wears running shoes exclusively, despite the snow.

"Jack! Son, c'mere."

Jackson grits his teeth. It's not as bad as _Jackie_ , no, but it's still in the top three.

"C'mere, c'mere."

...Yeah. He's going on a jog. He's not in the mood to be needled over anything and everything under the sun. Dementia is an _awful_ thing, an illness he's encountered more than once in his career, and he knows he should be more kind than impatient. It's just that he hardly has patience for himself. Much less kindness.

"Son, _c'mere_ already."

Jackson pretends to look down at his watch. God, she's nearly as bad as Mark when he got in one of his moods.

"I see you _right there_ , ye're taller than a goddamn tree."

It might've be easy to feign ignorance if she didn't have a voice that'd put a startled housecat to shame. People are starting to look up from their tasks, patient and nurse alike. His skin prickles at the cresting annoyance and confusion on their faces. ...Oh, what the hell. Jackson stifles a sigh and drifts over. A lot of little pleasant rebuttals spark in his head ( _I was about to go on a jog, my appointment is just about to start, I don't actually know you, ma'am_ ) but all he can manage is an exhausted:

"...Yes, Darla?"

She promptly pats the chair next to her. Jackson slides down, settles back and rubs at his jaw. Her blouse today twinkles with little rhinestones, matching a tiny set of earrings and making her look more like a visitor's grandmother than an in-house patient. It's all a little _too_ cute for a woman who didn't take a hint. In other words, the perfect spy.

"Jus' like Davey. My grandson was always rollin' his eyes. Like being young is _so_ hard. Come, sit and talk, tell me how you've been."

"Tired."

"What've you got to be tired over? Psh, maybe if you ate a little more, hm?"

Jackson hunkers at the table with his chin in his hand, nodding vaguely as Darla starts a ramble about this and that. She's not all that bad to listen to, really. Just can hardly focus on a single topic to save her life. First she goes on and on about her late husband, about what a charmer he was on a Bahamas cruise they took back in the eighties. Then she pivots to wishing her children would visit her more often, that grouchy grandson Davey and her sweet granddaughter Dominique. His jaw itches horribly all the while, but that's nothing new, and certainly nothing she can do a thing about. He jerks to attention when she shoves a thermos at him.

"Since you like pushin' away plates and wettin' yer whistle so much." She taps it. "Go on, now."

Jackson peers at it, then cocks an eyebrow. When she gives him an insistent look (with the unsaid threat of squalling like a cat again), he tugs back the top and sniffs it...then leans back when a sharp tang hits his nose. It's vodka.

"My granddaughter snuck some in, little gift." She bites her tongue to stifle a giggle. "Tastes like raspberries."

Jackson gapes at her, then hastily shutters his expression into polite interest when a nurse walks by. Well. Looks like the apple didn't fall far from _this_ tree. He glances surreptitiously over one shoulder. The nurses are preoccupied with their tasks (even more so now that he's sitting here, he might've just relieved one or two of them from constantly watching her).

"How'd she get this past security?" He asks, voice low. Darla wrinkles her nose like he just told her to eat a shoe.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to look a gift horse in the mouth? Goodness _gracious_."

She _did_ , actually, and he ended up doing it, anyway. Jackson feels the telltale ache that rises when a few hours' worth of reprieve is an arm's reach away. He swallows, slowly, and reaches up to scratch at his chin.

"Don't think you're supposed to have this...here, Darla." It smells great. Might be some dark cherry notes in there, too. "Alcohol is off-limits."

"Well, aren't _you_ just a ray of sunshine." She huffs, offended, reaching for the thermos. "I'll just put this back, then-"

The itch in his jaw spikes, the scraping tip of a scalpel through bone, and-

"Actually, I'd...love some."

Darla's eyes glitter happily. She screws off the top and pours him some into the lid.

"Cheers, Jack."

The first shot is more stress than it's worth. The second shot makes his jaw stop hurting, though, and the third shot makes his heart follow suit. He talks with her, about this and that and everything, and makes sure to keep the bottle _just_ out of arm's reach. She's far too old to be drinking. It's one thing for him to wreck his own life; he's not about to take yet another person down with him. Darla doesn't recognize the feint, not when he's sharing one of the many, _many_ colorful stories of Grey-Sloan that didn't make the papers.

"No, that can't be. That _can't_ be. Stop pullin' my leg, I'm old, not _dumb_." She cackles, now sounding like a witch. A few patients shoot peeved glances their way, but he's beyond caring. Jackson pats her back, snickering through the happy, hot lull.

"I'm not kidding, the tube came off, right in the helicopter, and blood went _everywhere_. Like that scene from Carrie. You ever seen that? Just like that. Everywhere. Got in my damn eyes, it was awful."

"Phew. Baby, that ain't _nothin'_ I didn't already face before menopause." She pats her lower stomach. "Only a little cleaner."

Jackson slaps his forehead. Ha ha. Ew. He's in the middle of explaining how he had to finish the operation with him and his co-worker ( _sweetest love, sweetest friend, gone-_ ) when Darla squawks down into the thermos.

"Son, did you drink it _all?_ "

Oh, thank God. Jackson pats her on the back.

"Sorry, Darla. I owe you one."

By the time he takes his leave to see Barnes he's not _quite_ sure what had him so frustrated in the first place. All the woes of life seem so very far away, unimportant, even manageable. The thought makes him laugh, hard enough for a nurse to blink at him when she passes him in the hallway. All right, not _quite_ manageable, but definitely not a problem. He'd been behind a different kind of glass back at Grey-Sloan. This one is _much_ thicker. Much better.

Barnes stares at him for a while when he slumps in his chair. Then again, it might just be for a few seconds. His therapist lets him leave the door open at a crack, which he's so grateful for he can't put it to words. He asks him about his mood today. Great. He asks him if he reviewed his pamphlets and filled out anything new in his journal. Great. ...Yes. Yes, he did.

"Let's talk about your work. It's a big part of your identity." He tilts his head. "Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes, yeah. Not right now." A young woman's face, round and brown, floats off somewhere in the room. She's fine, though. Better off, actually. Jackson shrugs and smiles loosely. "I will later, probably, but. It's nice to have a break, I guess."

Barnes writes something down, then reaches up and brushes back a loose curl into its careful style.

"...You're drunk."

Jackson blinks.

"Hm? I drunk what?"

Barnes doesn't look up, scratching something out.

"I'm not sure. A spirit, perhaps, by your breath."

Oh. He was sharp.

"I didn't have much."

"Clearly. You're still coherent. Strong enough for me to smell, yet you're able to string together decent sentences. Makes me wonder how carefully hollowed out those legs are." Then he switches from dry observation to assessing, too fast for Jackson to pinpoint the switch. "Alcohol is a common coping mechanism. It's also one of the most unhealthy. To date, alcoholism remains in the top ten most deadly diseases in the United States. Mental illness and high amounts of stress predisposes you to it. Nonetheless, I'm a little surprised to see this."

Jackson blinks passively, trying to catch up with all the words being stuck to him. He rubs at his hands, pushing around the keen numbness. What a curious approach this man has, rattling off a college prep course on medicine to a board certified doctor. He'll take it. Maybe it's how he's choosing to connect with him, keep them eye-to-eye. That's nice. Really nice. Now that he's got another sheet of glass between him and everything, he's sensing a clinging hunger for more blunt speech like this.

"As such, we'll have to call this session to a close. I can't do my job effectively if I reward harmful behavior, mind."

"Oh, no, no, I'm not harming myself. I feel _great_ , actually. Better than I have in weeks." Jackson pinches his nose to try and hold back a snicker. It doesn't work. "And weeks and weeks and _weeks_."

"Your future hangover begs to differ."

"Pft." He flaps a hand. "I don't get hangovers."

"So you're experienced at suppressing them? Must've had a lot of practice."

Wow, he's really digging in. To think, he once got pissed off at _Jo_ for coming to work drunk. Except he isn't at work. He's in a _ward_ , a socially acceptable time-out until the on-site psychiatrists medicated or hypnotized him into complacency. Was it really so evil to get a good buzz going and pretend for a bit he didn't just single-handedly crumble his family's good name, and his entire _life_ , overnight? Those thoughts bang hard on the glass, _thump-thumps_ that might _also_ be his heartbeat getting sluggish.

"Barnes, look, I..." Jackson starts, then closes his eyes and sways a little. It's getting hot again. "It just _helps_. That's all."

"Are you an alcoholic, Jackson?"

"What?" His eyes snap open again. "No."

"Then why can't you do this without alcohol?"

"I didn't say-" Jackson runs a hand over his head, plucking at the whorls starting to curl. When's the last time he cut his hair? "Look, I've never done this before. I've never had any of... _this_..." He gestures at the room. "...happen before. Not...not like this."

"So I've read. Are you scared, then, Jackson?"

Jackson slowly leans back. He stares at the watery, swaying green-and-brown blur at the desk, a painting underwater and slowly peeling apart. ...Scared? He wasn't scared of _anything_. A man vomiting blood and gripping his shirt, a patient about to crush someone's head with a hammer, a plume of fire stretching out to the sky with a child's scream the crescendo. No, that's not true. That was someone else. That means he's scared of everything. Facing another camera, facing another loved one, facing a schedule sheet with lives and livelihoods on the line. No, _that's_ not true, either.

"...I don't know."

"Then sober up, come back tomorrow with a clean slate and we'll figure it out. We can pick up from last time and talk about your childhood a little." Barnes bobs one shiny brown shoe. Jackson stares at it. "You're taking your time. I understand it. You have all the time in the world, with six months to figure out your tangle and develop the skills needed to not just _detangle_ , but cope, then thrive."

Wait... _wait?_ He doesn't have time to _wait_. He doesn't have six months! He has a medical license to reinstate and patients to see and a daughter to hug. He doesn't realize he said this out loud, until Barnes' voice sharpens.

"I understand. Unfortunately, we've only scratched the surface of your mental health and, if I'm being entirely honest, you aren't very forthcoming with what you're dealing with."

"I'll talk about it _now-_ " Jackson tries. The man rolls over him easily, as if he said nothing at all.

"I suggest you go back to your room and rest. Make sure to grab something from the cafeteria, too. Alcohol's worse on an empty stomach. Where'd you get it, by the way?"

Ah, hell. He was hoping he wouldn't ask. It's not Darla's fault, not when she probably doesn't know her own name half the time. Barnes' drawl stretches flatter than a baking sheet.

"...You bribe a nurse?"

"No. No, nothing like that. I just...don't want to take her down with me."

"You're doing the rest of the ward a favor. Some here are alcoholics. Others have heart issues or general dependency that could be made even worse."

Jackson's chest sinks. That's true.

"...Darla. Said her, uh, granddaughter gave it to her." He says. Barnes narrows his eyes.

"Her granddaughter doesn't visit. None of her family does." Fortunately, he looks more thoughtful than suspicious. "Hm."

"I didn't let her drink any."

"Good. I'm glad to know the doctor hasn't entirely left the building."

Then he's being helped to his feet and walked to the door. Jackson drifts down the hallway in a warm haze, the fear and clawing panic and stubborn itch still pleasantly dimmed, scratched into a haze. Things start to spin a little by the time he gets to his room ( _howmuchvodka_ ), a strange buzzing filling his ears ( _wasinthatthermos_ ). When he reaches the endless sea of his bed he grabs a pillow, something to hold onto, and sinks.

***

October 1st, 2019:

_exhausted. cold snap hit and nobody's allowed to go out unless it's scheduled leave with family. hate being fucking cooped up inside. Trigger: being fucking cooped up inside_

*

_It's been too damn long since he's been to a party._

_His ability to do flip cup is shit, but it could be because he's had five beers and a lemon shot. A pretty intern he doesn't know tell him rusted red is his color, plucks at his shirt and coos into his ear. It's his only clean shirt before laundry day, but he takes the compliment with stride, hooking an arm around her waist to breathe in the scent of raspberries and cherries. She offers to kiss him, somewhere away from all the windows and barrels, and he agrees. He lets her tug him through the shoulder ocean to an island in the hallway, so long it stretches into a tunnel._

_When he presses her to a wall she turns into Stephanie. Her flurry of dark curls swells, bursts into shadow, stretches up and down the halls to swallow him whole. All that's left is a beacon at the end of the hallway. April, whose head is on fire. When she takes his jaw and crushes their mouths together his face blisters, peels and pops and melts, and he can't speak for screaming. He needs to get out. Get out of here, take everyone with them, because if he doesn't everyone will burn and bleed and choke._

_The hallway is so long it seems to have no end, until it suddenly does, endless black fading into the low light of a kitchen square. Maggie is alone. She was never at the party. Both her elbows on the counter, hair a plume of smoke that's raining water all over the floor. Jackson stumbles to her, takes her face in both hands and stares into the pops and flashes of lightning behind her lashes. When he kisses her his broken face stitches back together, her downpour parching his cracked throat._

"...esting dreams."

"...What?"

Barnes' patience is supernatural. He simply crosses his leg and taps his paper pad.

"I asked if you had any interesting dreams."

Jackson rubs at his knuckles and looks back down at his sneakers.

"Not really."

***

October 18th, 2019:

_cafeteria made waffles today. feel like im in grad school again. didnt have an appetite. jogged around the grounds. read some magazines. naps are easier than full-on sleep. heard a door slam, felt nauseous. Trigger: doors,_

_maybe_

_where did I go?_

*

Three weeks into his stay his mother visits. She arrives early in the morning. Since he was small she's always been heralded by the birds chirping. Everyone was a singer in Catherine Fox's choir, even the animals.

They sit in his room over mugs of coffee they don't drink. She mentions the decor, which has nothing to do with him, and eventually lapses into a silence that doesn't suit her.

"...You're thin." Judging by her hair she just got out of a meeting. It's pressed firm, silky as a bedsheet, and her nails are a garnet pop. Her coat is drawn high up her neck, white scarf poking out in a dignified afterthought. She leans forward. "Have you been eating?"

"Be dead if I weren't."

"Are you eating _enough?_ "

If there's _one_ thing he can appreciate about this place, it's that he didn't have to do this damn song and dance. Get badgered, get badgered some _more_ , bob, spin, dip. It's like trying to put on a too-tight sweater, the discomfort stark immediately. Jackson rolls his eyes up to the heavens, silently praying that God just strike him with that damn lightning bolt already.

"...Sometimes."

"Let me see your hand."

Jackson holds it up. His bandages came off two weeks ago, but the stitches are still in. Leaving them alone and not scratching them back open has been one of the most difficult parts of an already difficult month. When his (cursed) jawline wasn't on fire these damn things were scratching and tickling. When he ate, when he showered, when he-

"It's healed well." She says. When she doesn't let go he tugs his hand away. They sit in another wall of silence for a while. He doesn't know. He's lost interest in the clock.

"...Are they treating you well?"

"Yeah."

"How's your therapist?"

"Good."

His mother's sigh is razor sharp. Jackson's stomach churns with guilt. He's not _trying_ to be difficult. He just knows what's going to happen. He can smell the ammunition before it's fired. This should be one of the happiest parts of this cold and lonely month, and yet, he feels nothing but dread.

"...Baby, I know you're stressed. I've been thinking about what happened every day." She starts to rummage through her purse. "I've been called in for an interview at another mental health hospital. Sun Health Services. There's been a _lot_ of buzz generated concerning your story."

His chest constricts. There it is. There it _always_ is. Catherine carefully lays out her tools of war. A sheet of paper. Her pen. A phone, with which she pulls up a video.

"The security guard that tried to apprehend you, the one you punched? Video footage showed he handled mental health protocol _terribly_. Richard made sure I knew about it." She taps the video to fullscreen, then flips it horizontal and holds it up to eye-level. "This might be another point in your favor, should the media circuit need another distraction."

He wants to tell her to put it away, _please_ , keep the outside in the outside, but the words don't come out. Jackson hunches into the chair and stares at a fluorescent top-down video feed: the second floor of Grey-Sloan's west wing, nurses and residents and secretaries hustling like any average day. Then a chair goes through a patient room's window and showers glass everywhere. Not a second later a man who looks like him, but can't _be_ him, crawls out. Spots red on the tiles, the walls. Walks away like nothing happened.

...Horror movie. It's a horror movie, but he can't turn it off. The video freezes, then cuts to the man who looks like him (but _can't be_ ) walking through a hallway, then down a flight of stairs, then past a confused visiting couple. A security guard startles at the sight of him. Grabs his shoulder, yanks him around. The Jackson in the video yells something, an incoherent ramble drenched in static. About fire, of a madman with a gun, of glass. Then he strikes the guard in the face and sends him to the floor.

"How much do you remember?" Catherine asks, reaching over to touch his knee. Jackson shakes his head numbly.

"Um."

How does he explain it all feels like a dream? That, despite the fact hard evidence is within arm's reach, it _still_ does? Certain parts are blurry, indistinct. Time _completely_ jumbled. It feels like he was outside first, inside next, but that makes no logical sense. He remembers Owen. He doesn't remember Amelia. There was glass in his hand, yet he only felt the pain later. Maggie in the parking lot with her phone light glowing like a torch stands out in his head more sharply than the broken window, and that makes no sense, either.

"There's good news. Schmitt spoke out in your favor. He mentioned working alongside you in that hyperbaric chamber, when you had an attack? He said you hadn't threatened him or made him feel unsafe." She finally clicks the damn thing off, and the relief is so palpable he breaks out into a cold sweat. "Poor thing is getting _quite_ used to standing up in court on behalf of his co-workers."

Jackson swallows back the hot lump in his throat. ...He didn't have to do that.

"Malani, too. After she submitted her statement she told me she was open to an interview. I may just consider it."

Jackson starts to shake. She needs to slow down-

"Wait-"

"Maggie, surprisingly enough, didn't drag you for filth." Catherine tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. "Didn't really say all that much, honestly."

Jackson twists his fingers until his knuckles bloom white. ...Is she okay? He didn't hurt her, did he? He punched a man, something he doesn't even remember _doing_ , and it was worth asking-

"I've already drafted out both speeches." She holds out a sheet of too-bright paper. "One for me while you recover, one when you come out."

Jackson's heart slows to a stuttering, aching stop.

" _What?_ "

"For when you get out. We'll find a way to spin all of this to keep the vultures off our tail and the foundation looking stable. I don't want you worrying about image on top of everything else already on your plate. Sun Health Services is very interested in hearing from you."

"...You're going to use my shitshow for PR."

His mother hits her shoulders against the back of the chair, as if blown away by the thought of it all.

"Jackson, when the hell did you get like this? So self-righteous and petulant, like the entire _world_ is out to get you. I'm starting to wonder what I did to raise a boy on pure luck and have him, somehow, forget it." She pauses for a moment (a strange hitch in a flawless machine), then snaps. "You and I? We take poison and we spin it into gold. If I don't comment on this I'll look like I have something to hide. If I look like I have something to hide, the media will have a field day. If the media has a field day, we could lose valuable partnerships that help us help people. So shelve your self-pity and let me do _my_ job so you can get _your_ job _back_."

"...Poison?" His voice breaks, or maybe it's something else. "I'm _poison?_ "

"That's, no, Jackson-"

"No, no, I get it. I'm poison. I'm your perfect, polished, pretty little Avery that talks on command and barks on command until I don't fucking work. Then I'm something you have to fix, quietly and out-of-sight so you're not fucking _embarrassed_." It hurts. He's gone from feeling nothing to feeling everything, from smooth glass to sharp, jagged points that hurt hurt _hurt-_ "First time we see each other since I lost my goddamn mind and it's _pestering_ , _commands_ , _protocol_. You never _change_."

"Jackson, stop hearing what you want to hear and listen to what I'm _saying_." Catherine reaches out to take his hand. "Jackson, you're my baby-"

"I'm not a child anymore." He swats her hand away, the realization hitting like that overdue bolt of lightning. His voice goes faint. "...Yeah. That's it. I'm not a child. I can actually push _back_ , now. Push back on all the times you forced me to be this and not that. Do this, not that. You know best. You always know best. Right now? You. Know. _Best_."

Too many emotions swim in his mother's eyes, the one place she couldn't preen and dress herself into immaculate mystery. Jackson leans forward, pulled forward on a hot spiral.

"Is that why you sent people to the hospital to _spy_ on me? Why you pushed into my OR more times than I can count to harangue me about whatever the hell was the topic of the day? My career choices, my free time, my love life?" He whirls to the door, then back, mouth twisted. "...Who the fuck _else_ is watching? Is it Darla? The little old lady with sticky fingers, is that who you sent to keep an eye on me?"

"No, I-"

"Is it Hina? Percy? Yung?"

" _No!_ "

Catherine lurches to her feet, a mushroom cloud of an argument written all over her face. Jackson does the same, all of it coming out hot-

"I didn't want to be the _damn_ head of the board, coast on that damned nepotism and have everyone hate me for it. I didn't want you creeping in on my surgeries! I didn't want you talking to my ex-wife when we were going through another fallout. One way or another, you do whatever the _hell_ you want and kiss me on the nose for it. I've told you to stop so many times and you never do. You never do!" He grits his teeth. "Now you're here to tell me how to be broken correctly. How to _bleed right_."

"Jackson-" Catherine clutches her purse in both hands, looking faint, and he can't keep it in.

" _Why can't you just ask me if I'm okay?_ "

His mother reels. Stares. Stares and stares like she doesn't know who the hell she's looking at, and why would she? This isn't the son she raised. _None of this was supposed to happen_. Jackson turns away from her, running hands up and down his face.

"And just...just leave it at that. Why? Why, why, _why_ is that so hard? To just let me... _be?_ "

Still nothing. _Still_ nothing. His mother wasn't one to lack words. They were her greatest tool, sharper than any scalpel she's held. Right now he's never needed her words more. To hear her acknowledge the guts he just spilled all over the floor.

"...I think you should leave." Oh, he hates this, too. Hates having to ask permission for peace. Nothing was his. Nothing. Nothing. "I need you to go."

His mother says nothing, for another blur of time. Then she touches his shoulder and every last inch of skin _cringes_. Jackson shoves her hand away, gestures toward the door.

"Get out. Get...the _hell_ out and leave me alone for once in my god _damn_ life." When she doesn't move, mouth quivering dangerously- " _ **I said get out!**_ "

His mother leaves this time to silence, and he's left with the echo.

***

_October 25th, 2019:_

_my fucking jaw itches itches itches itches itches itches itches itches itches_

_I cant stand it cant take it i cant take it i cant i cant_

*

_Sometimes we forget all that matters is people._

Mark?

_I want you to promise me something._

_Mark._

One message, two message, three. Mark's trying to get in touch! After so much _time_. His heart shoots up his throat. Jackson fumbles for his phone, only to find it on the other pillow. He reaches for it, then it's on the floor. He's trying to send him something important. It keeps buzzing and buzzing and _buzzing_ , messages and calls and voicemails in an avalanche. He runs to the bathroom, then back to the bedroom, the firefly light of a beloved voice always at his fingertips. He feels the brush of something firm, clutches for it-

-and Jackson has to clutch the bedframe to keep from falling. In his empty room, so empty there were no mundane details like phones on bedside tables. He flings his pillow at the wall, helplessly, and falls back with his hands on his face.

He brings the dream up in their next session. Barnes is visibly taken aback, nearly dropping his instant coffee package into the mug.

"Why _now?_ "

It comes out helpless. A punch of air that he can't suck back in. His therapist goes from pleasantly surprised to interested.

"First time you've ever brought up your dreams. I had wondered about the nightmares on your patient report. What do you mean, 'now'?"

"I had nightmares in the past, I dealt with them, but now they're...out of control now. It doesn't make sense. I thought PTSD was...a repeated thing. Something that got worse the more you were exposed to it."

"Sometimes one is all it takes. Though...you _did_ tell me there was more, didn't you? The shooting, yes, and an explosion. Being locked in, again and again, and those you've lost, pulling those old wound opens. You have a compulsion for secrecy. It makes me wonder what else you haven't shared with me yet. Makes me wonder the cut-to-salve ratio."

Jackson scrubs at his face, digs nails into his skin until it outruns the itch. Maybe not now.

"Stress getting out of hand?"

"...What?"

"You try to peel your face off like it's a velcro strap."

Jackson yanks his hands away, though it's far too late. Barnes does his classic oldhead smile, the one where he's probably sure he's got all the information lined up like ducks in a row. He's like Webber, if Webber had a smarmier sense of humor and a full head of hair.

"I'm not here to hand you all the answers, Jackson. The best case scenario is that you leave here with the ability to not just find the solutions yourself, but act upon them." He stares at him, quietly, then: "Have you thought of shaving?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I...need something to keep my hands busy. I feel itchy and...stir-crazy when I don't. I've gone from having my hands in someone's neck or chest or _skull_ to...nothing."

"There are better things that can keep your hands busy. Embroidery. Sculpting. Guitar." Barnes scratches down a note. "Hurts a little less."

He's right. That also means _people_. He's not good with people anymore. It's like what happened at Grey-Sloan ripped a chunk out of his frontal lobe. Barnes' calculation softens a little.

"I can get you something for nerves." He offers. Jackson huffs.

"Like a fidget spinner?"

"If you want one. I prefer clay or a rabbit's paw, myself."

The thought of a portable crutch, instinctively, sickens him. Then _that_ thought sickens him, and it's an ugly few minutes of self-reflection that he studies why. Having something to fiddle with...would be the cherry on the cake. An unavoidable sign that he truly was sick in the head. It's a horrible thing to think. He roils in the disgust, tries to sort it away from the self-pity. Then he tries to imagine himself walking around with something in his hands, something less mundane than a pen or a keychain. Jackson rolls his hands over one another, mentally apologizing to the crying patients in the hall, the screaming ones in the room, the vacant ones in the lobby.

"...I think I need medication."

"Do you?"

"I can't _sleep_."

Barnes smiles, sympathetically. It should sting, but it doesn't.

"...You've been here for less than a month. Medication can sometimes be the goal, but it depends on your situation. Your barriers, your progress. Just finding the right type and dosage can be quite a challenge, much less sticking to it consistently. Sleep medication is also notoriously addictive. Until we make more progress _here_ , I can't in good conscience refer you a dosage."

Jackson leaves the session feeling empty. He slums in the lobby with Darla. Listens to her ramble. Vents himself, for some reason, about his weariness and the weather and the itching. She has Nyquil, also for _some_ reason, and tries to sneak him a handful, like some morbid twist on grandma candy. Jackson retreats back to his room before dinner and dumps them in the trash.

***

October 29th, 2019:

_exercised all day. no nightmares. didn't eat._

_Ran three miles. too much energy. someone turned on the news in the lunch room. lost my appetite. Hina suggested I go join a yoga session, dont want to be around people. music helps a little. itching. Trigger: news, television in general_

_I don't think I can do this anymore_

*

Something has to give.

It's hard to tell if his commitment is going well. He has no frame of reference. He _could_ look to his straight A's in high school, except those haven't mattered in years (and his mother had always focused on the single A minus, anyway). He could look to his career in plastics, except those he could compare himself to are rotting in the ground. He could look to his family and friends, except they were all dust. He's alone, more alone than he's ever been.

The next session turns to his mother. No matter how hard he ran, he remained always in her shadow.

"Was it ever difficult being raised by a famous single mother?" Barnes is wearing a violet suit with a bat bowtie for Halloween. Somehow it looks more dignified than silly, and he tries to focus on that detail instead of the fact he can't go trick-or-treating with Harriet. "That's a two-for-one deal."

Jackson snorts. He won't dignify that question with a response. To Barnes' credit, he seems to catch on.

"Allow me to get specific. Would you say...your mother has difficulty opening up?"

Jackson tosses his head back with a laugh.

"Oh, _God_ , yeah. She practically invented, then patented, the art of emotional constipation."

"Do you have any examples?"

Too many. All of it comes out in a flood, one Barnes bears with his usual attentiveness. Jackson talks about how his mother hated crying around him, always pretending it was allergies or a problem with her contacts growing up. About how any offer to help her with _anything_ , big or small, was always refused. Professional acquaintance, her own _husband_ , didn't matter. She tried to bear the Harper Avery scandal alone. When Webber was electrocuted. Her cancer.

"After her surgery she had to do physical therapy. Became a sobbing mess when she slipped and fell during a walking exercise. Made my stomach go cold." Jackson holds up a finger, then pauses. "...Wait. How'd you notice she has difficulty opening up?"

"Apple doesn't fall too far from the tree." Barnes murmurs, looking down his long nose at him and writing down another note without looking. ...God, that was strange.

"Yeah. My grandfather never liked showing weakness, either. Once said sob stories and well-wishings were 'beneath him'. Sort of the family keepsake, that. My father...well, 'father'...couldn't hack it as an Avery. Left when I was seven. Barely remember him. He was a proud surgeon with a lot to live up to...and he messed it _all_ up. Mismanaged the hospital under his command so bad hundreds of good workers lost their jobs and my mother had no choice but to fire him as brutally, and publicly, as possible." Jackson sneers at the floor. "Wasn't a father so much as an _aesop_."

The righteous disgust fades a little, then.

"...Always thought he was a coward. Now I kind of get it. Just...wanted to pretend I was made of tougher stuff." He doesn't smell antiseptic now, but beer froth and scrambled eggs. "...He asked me if I was happy. Over the cups of chicory, when I visited on a medical assignment, he asked if I was happy as if he could see right through me."

Barnes is writing notes so fast his hand hardly seems to move.

"I haven't heard you mention your father until now. What got you thinking about him?"

"...The news. I haven't been watching it, like you suggested, but I know it's there." Jackson starts to scratch, stops himself and wrings his hand. "I know I dragged the Avery family name through the mud. Apple didn't far from the tree at all."

"You compare yourself to your father. How does your mother feel about all this?"

"Like she has to do damage control." Jackson all but spits it out. "That _I'm_ the damage to be controlled."

"She said that to you?"

"Yeah." Jackson pauses. "...Kind of." He scratches beneath his ear. "...I yelled at her. I've been yelling at a lot of people lately."

Barnes takes off his glasses, rubbing at the worn dips on the side of his nose. It's an exhausted motion, but an attentive one.

"...You're all over the place today. This is very good, Jackson. It sounds like you've been doing quite a bit of introspection."

Jackson rubs his knuckles. Rubs and rubs, the itch in his beard pulsing.

"Did they deserve it?"

Jackson slowly looks up.

...Did they?

His mother loves him so hard it's choking him, and he's not sure if some of the things she does could be called love. He'd loved April, so much that it choked _him_ , too, and she still hadn't wanted him. He loved Maggie, and the mere thought has his throat clench up, a hot burn raking through his neck and threatening to reach his eyes. God, he _loved_ her, loved her like songs loved the _stars_ , until one night he couldn't look at her or touch her or breathe the same air as her. Sitting in this room, on this leather chair with these bland beige walls, he's stunned still at the realization that he doesn't know why.

One-by-one everyone in his life has fallen like dominoes.

"I can never make her happy. Sometimes I feel like I could tell her grass is green and she'd find a way to slice me up over it. Last time we all had dinner together, when I got that stupid payout and she kept grilling me on why I should be grateful-" He holds up a swift hand when Barnes raises his eyebrows. "I _am_ grateful. I'm not...I'm not going to pretend being rich is hard, there was just...there was a better way to go about the whole situation. My girlfriend at the time...Maggie...defended me on that."

It comes out far sloppier than dominoes. Not a one-by-one confession so much as all-by-all, a scattered mess that Barnes observes with a serenity so sincere he might actually believe it.

"Talking to my mother is like preparing for battle, every time. Have to steel myself up, grit my teeth and get it over with. I...I had another girlfriend back in the day, Lexie. I told her to take a short vacation when my Mom came to visit. Just because I _knew_ what she'd do. It was so _stupid_." Jackson huffs and rubs at his nose, then hunches elbows on his knees and stares at the far wall. "Lexie's dead."

Barnes doesn't write anything down.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's whatever. Mark's dead, too. Derek. Samu-"

Then he can't breathe, and he has to tuck his chin against his chest and huff until he finds air. Barnes doesn't say anything else. There's nothing _to_ say. He said his speeches at the funerals. Said his prayers to God, years and years too late. His feelings on the matter are withered. Like all the fuel's burnt out and he's just sifting the pile around. Jackson rubs his face, pinches his nose and breathes. He needs to walk. Run. Sprint.

"Can I...can I leave early?"

"We have thirty-seven minutes left. If you go you'll have to add on the time later."

"I know. I will. Please."

"Let's compromise. Five more minutes, then you're free to go. This will build your tolerance through the difficult emotions, since your go-to habit is to retreat and compartmentalize. I want you to progress, even when it feels like you're moving backwards."

"Okay." Jackson pinches harder, feels the urge to rock and holds it back. "Okay. What else."

"Tell me more about that dinner. From the way you put it...your girlfriend at the time, Maggie, was it? Seems she did you a big favor."

More than a big deal. It meant the _world_ to him.

"Because she _listened_. Didn't brush off the money, but didn't focus on the money. She said it made sense I was frustrated. That, um, too many options could be a very stressful thing, that the stink of bribe money from sexual assault was a lot to bear. I don't know. I don't know. It was...it just meant a lot."

"She stood up to your mother, then." Barnes says. His careful precision wouldn't be out of place in plastics. "Stood up for you."

"She didn't stand up so much as..." Jackson trails off. "Well. Kind of..." A slow, careful warmth spreads in his chest. "Yeah. She...she did."

"You stood up to your mother last week, though."

"I guess." He shrugs. "...Yeah."

Barnes clicks his notepad shut and puts his glasses back on. Jackson can't get out of his chair fast enough, tugging on his hoodie (even though it's too hot, again).

"The walls here aren't here to box you in. They're to center you in your own world. Your own rules, your own ambitions. Remind you of the power you have that mental illness or trauma has broken down. Remember how you felt, and _why_ you felt it."

"You keep saying that, it's illness, it's trauma, but that's not how it works for me." Jackson passes a hand over his hair. "I'm an Avery. We push through our obstacles."

"Push through, then collapse. How well has that worked out for you?"

"I can't just _abandon_ it all."

"What if you could go down another path?"

Jackson puts his hand on the doorframe, then pauses and turns.

"...What?"

"What if you _could_ , Jackson?"

Jackson opens his mouth to respond...

...and can't.

When he leaves he's allowed to have his phone for a few hours. He takes it and doesn't look. He's afraid of who'll text him first: his mother or the delusion of a man who part-timed as his mentor and his big brother.

It's the first time in his life he's looked at a phone and hardly recognized it for what it is. Less like a mundane form of communication technology and more some strange toy that might bite. He has fourteen missed calls and thirty-one unread messages. The world at large has started to get a little muffled, and, for another first time in his life...he's fine with that. A part of him briefly considers browsing the Internet to see any mention of Maggie's research, but the thought alone turn his palms to ice.

Friday is game day. Bingo and checkers (the videogame room full with twenty-somethings). Western Roth feels less like a wellness hospital and more like a retirement home near the end of the week; when he reaches the second floor nearly every elderly resident is playing. Jackson fiddles with his pockets, trying to think of a distraction that can get him into the hallway and stay there. Then Darla squawks his name, waves him over, and he's slinking over to make room for himself at a table of five.

It's almost fun.

They bet simple things, like a salted caramel cookie (still wrapped, thankfully) and a dollar bill one of them found on the ground (evidence by the shoe print on the corner). When Darla bets a knitted hat he's never seen her wear, he makes a mental note to double-check the lost and found. They tell him he has a hell of a poker face (and that, apparently, he has a slight lazy eye when he stares). He loses both rounds, which is fine with him, and it's the third round it becomes less casual fun and more casually overwhelming. He can't explain why, and tries not to think about the disappointment on the group's faces when he retreats back to his room, then the bathroom.

Jackson sets his phone on the counter, then studies himself in the mirror. He touches the scar on his cheek. Almost gone. Maybe he could ask one of the doctors to do a graft. It was shallow enough that it would fade away on its own with time, a year or two with dedicated exfoliation, but he doesn't want to wait that long. He presses a finger into the freckles, moves to his beard to tug ( _gettingtoolong_ ), rubs at his nose and smooths at his hairline ( _wouldn'tpassforatelevisionspot_ ). How nice it'd be to take a chisel and a curette and chip away at himself, debriding the crazy and bringing back _that_ Jackson. The one that, once upon a time, turned heads and fluttered hearts.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone buzzes. ...God _dammit_. Jackson leans both hands on the counter, drags his nails down the tiles and takes in a tight breath, shuddering out the exhale. Why did he bring that stupid thing?

His mother's face flashes insistently on the screen. A preview balloon pops up, one his eyes glaze past. She's been trying to call him. A lot. Jackson hovers a hand above his phone...then, with an agonizing slowness that creaks, pulls it away and grips his jaw. _Rolls_ it, tugs at it, grits his teeth and tries to chew the burning ache. ...What the hell was the point? He was just going to go back to that spiral. His head's been lifted above water, he's being given a few gulps of fresh air in the form of checkerboard with oldheads and too much sleeping, but he was going _back_.

From limbo straight down to hell.

Barnes' words echo in his mind. He needs to brush and floss. He doesn't care. He needs to change out of these smelly clothes and into something that doesn't feel like a third layer of sweat. He doesn't care. Jackson hovers above the sink, stares uselessly at the countertop, the insistent grind of _do something_ scratching at the glass that's increasingly defined the world. He should send his mother an apology to soothe her hackles for the always later ( _heyelledathershehateshimnow_ ). He doesn't care.

Someone else stares back, judges him all the while. A tired, pale, ugly man.

He sees it in the green, a shade the color of no sleep. The thin scar on his cheekbone, the overgrown beard with a missing piece. Back to hurting people (when he was supposed to be healing). Back to trying to function (when he's supposed to be perfect). He's suddenly terrified of being alone, needs a back to claw and a neck to bite, but wants nothing more than to be alone, can't fucking _stand_ the idea of someone looking at this spidercracked veneer, not even in dark sheets. Jackson starts splashing his face with water, fruitlessly scrubbing at his eyes. It only makes them redder. Crazier.

Swollen, with the truth. She wouldn't want to love this. _Couldn't_ , even if she tried, and he couldn't blame her, not with all the despair in the world. His phone buzzes again, this time a call-

-and Jackson grabs it, yanks open the bathroom door and _flings_ it at the wall. It cracks, pops apart to hit the floor in two pieces. He storms over and stomps on it until the glass breaks, until it crunches and smears in a mess of circuits. Then he slams a fist against the wall, kicks at it until it cracks, then crumples, then breaks. Keeps stomping into the crumbling plaster, stomping and stomping ( _screaming_ ) until a sharp voice raises and the door to his bedroom flings open, two pairs of hands gripping his shoulders to tug him away.

* * *

_First impressions are formed in three to seven seconds, and last longer than superior second and third impressions. A crooked smile can mean the difference between getting hired and getting passed over. Acne is seen as a stereotypical teenage problem, yet affects millions of adults and is closely correlated with plummeting self-esteem and even an increased risk for suicide. The perfect face is something many would die for._

_Smile for the camera._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried my hardest to trim, but this chapter ended up _preeetty_ meaty. I wanted to really get across the fatigued, blurry, _messy_ sensation of life coming apart more than one seam at a time.
> 
> It's not easy having a loved one committed. A few years back my little brother had to be, after several incidents of violent outbursts and severe mood swings. I've also seen friends sent to wards, with nothing but miserable tales to share afterwards. Big reason why I created a fictional psychiatric ward/halfway house/assisted living center. Fiction is where we can explore better, no matter how far away it is.
> 
> There's a deleted scene in Season 13 where Jackson goes into greater detail about his father and how he let both him and his mother down. I had a few theories as to why he hated the guy (apart from the whole 'abandoning his family') thing, but this was a _really_ illuminating little addition. I know scenes have to be left on the cutting room floor for time constraints, but this was the only build-up the audience could've gotten before that diner encounter.


	5. never so well

**Song Inspiration:** "Later" by emawk

*

_i've got this wheel i swear_

_the sound of this new year_

_is tires screeching_

_i never say goodbye right_

* * *

_Quick schemes are a pretty popular thing in today's fast-paced society._

_Lose ten pounds in one week! Fix your depression with this little-known secret passed down by grandma. Use sheer force of will to overcome that diabetes diagnosis. The list goes on and on. While miracles certainly exist, lasting change is usually a meticulous thing. It's built up, piece-by-piece, on good habits. You can't rush perfection..._

_...and perfection is the enemy of greatness, anyway._

* * *

He's tired.

It's not the kind of weariness that can be shrugged off with a vacation. Not a weekend with the missus, not a two-week journey to an exotic locale. The exhaustion that drapes over him today is a second skin, wrapped _snug_ , and to try and peel it off would be, somehow, the most exhausting effort of them all.

He'll take her to see a play. Dinner was always a relaxing endeavor, but it was far too easy to sink into work-related conversation. All the energy from the food _and_ the lack of energy sitting down, no doubt. Maybe they could go to the ice rink after. Pretend they were far younger than they were. Catherine could never admit to needing a break. Cancer couldn't do it. Her son fraying apart at the seams and being swept up into the state's medical system couldn't do it. For now he sits and waits as her eternal bulwark, for her to eventually drift around and plan her own crumbling down to the decimal.

It was better than nothing, he supposes. He would wait, for as long as it took.

Richard fiddles with the corner of the envelope, the only sound his ears can catch in the room's reinforced walls. Sometimes, though...it feels like all he _does_ is wait. It's a sobering thought, for an already sober day, and a surefire sign he should pick up one of these controllers and play a game to get his mind off it all. The exhaustion doesn't let him move toward the television, though. No, he just sits and twists at the paper and thinks. Thinks about how so many people have come. So many people have gone. He's sat in just about every spot in Grey-Sloan and waited through it _all_ , trying to help those that viewed assistance as a scar on their character.

"It's _so_ good, seriously, I can't believe you haven't heard of it yet-"

"Last game I played was Mario Party, I think. Destroyed two of my friendships."

Richard twists around. Nico and Schmitt are standing in the game room doorway, hand-in-hand.

"Oh, sorry, sir. I was just gonna show him some of the games on my break..." Schmitt leans eagerly in his boyfriend's ear. "Undertale is going to be your new favorite thing, _trust_ me. Dr. Pierce has such good taste."

"What's Undertale?" Richard asks. Schmitt bounces on his heels and looks like he's about to burst.

"Oh, _oh_. It's one of today's modern classics. It's this _unbelievable_ RPG where you can go through the entire game without killing a single enemy. It's so creative and it has an _amazing_ soundtrack, and- _oh!_ Are you going to stay here for a while, sir? You can watch us, if you like."

It's adorably nauseating. They do their best not to cuddle too obviously (though nothing slipped past his radar, not in _this_ hospital) and select one of the games in the gamelist, which Maggie explicitly set up to be relaxing, educational or moderately stimulating. The one they're playing's got an old-school look to it. Interesting music. For a few minutes Richard listens to their banter, watching the little cartoons bob and twinkle on the screen. ...Hm. He might need a little more silence. Maggie's blue room should do the trick.

"You know, I think I'm going to go sit for a little while longer. Please, enjoy, uh..." Richard squints at the screen, trying to make sense of all the floating dots and hearts. "...your Undertale."

He's been here before, and yet, walking in was like stepping underwater. He supposes that's the point. It's easier to shrug off the worries of the world when said world feels miles away. What was it she said about blue room protocol? Take three deep breaths, think of a single word, repeat it until you feel your shoulders relax? Richard takes a seat, closes his eyes and tries to imagine his temporary escape like a nice, hot salt soak. Repairing the bone weariness with the determined hand of a seamstress, stitch by stitch. These new rooms are, without a doubt, some of the best ideas Grey-Sloan has _ever_ had.

A word, though. _Which_ word? Richard looks at the letter in his hands. Smooths out the wrinkled corner until it looks respectable again. The one he wants to repeat, admittedly, is 'sorry'.

Catherine wasn't fond of rolling over and showing her proverbial belly. She also wasn't a fan of apologies, _especially_ when they hit close to home. It's something she'll have to hear, though, since he was responsible for this whole sorry state of affairs. He'd seen the warning signs. He had the power to make her son take a health leave. Oh, it was all one thing after another. Meredith's fallout was just _now_ being swept up, with the stains prepared to remain for months (perhaps years) to come. This hole in the wall wasn't _quite_ so big, but it's ripple effect continues to spread.

The door opens. Richard starts to sigh, until he sees who it is.

"Oh. Hey."

Maggie slumps in the chair beside him. Richard watches her take five deep breaths (ah, five, that's right-), eyes closed and hands placed in her lap.

"Room working out for you?" She asks. Richard hums.

"Well enough. How are you and your patient getting along?" He asks, low enough to hopefully not disturb the serenity of the room. Maggie nods, eyes still carefully shut.

"She's a doll. We just got done with the charge tests and she's taking a break now. That heart of hers is making things a little more dubious than I like, and the recharge isn't dispersing through the skin like it was _supposed_ to, but...that's what patience is for. Lots and lots and _lots_ of patience."

Well, scratch that. Every idea Maggie had was the best idea Grey-Sloan ever had. Richard, in spite of the respite settling into his bones, fiddles with the envelope again. The chair beside him creaks.

"...What's that?"

"Hm? Oh, it's...a thank-you letter."

"Aw, that's so sweet. For who?"

Well, there really is no easy way to say it, is there? Richard tries a smile, then stops bothering and shows her the cover. Depressing, how just saying this man's name inspires so many negative emotions now. Anger, in what he did to a sweet woman, then again, then again. Horror, at how this bright-eyed and bushy-tailed plastics superstar spiraled so _viciously_. Maggie's expression grows blank. She puts on a thoughtful frown and bobs her head, trying her hardest to look casual.

"...Oh."

"From his previous patient. I haven't read it."

Malani had been assigned a new doctor the very next day, as soon as possible to add an apology to the very real scare of seeing her lead surgeon smash her room. Her parents, however, were unimpressed. Several weeks later and they are still attempting to press charges, impeded only by Catherine's impressive skill with arbitration. She'd shared with him just the other night how she was preparing to pay for the surgery _and_ replace the damaged car in a gesture of good faith. Richard feels no hesitation as he shares the details with Maggie. She'd been in the thick of it, after all.

"...That's messed up." She whispers, staring hard at the glowing square before her. "It was _proven_ to be a psychotic breakdown. Why would they want to keep dragging it out?"

"Well, her parents have categorized it as medical negligence. Both for the doctor neglecting to seek out mental help _and_ the hospital for keeping him employed regardless. All this has been reaching up through the medical ladder to whomever was responsible. Myself, basically, for being his boss...and his mother for putting him on the board of directors. It's a mess they want to wring out for every last drop." Richard chuckles drily. "The Avery Foundation can certainly afford it."

"It's not your fault, Richard." Maggie says, immediately. Bless her soul. This woman was sweet to a fault. "You can't predict everything."

"I could've predicted this, though. Bad weather, plane crashes, that has to roll off my back, but this?" He taps the envelope. "I could've, if I hadn't let my personal feelings get in the way. I operated on frustration, not logic, and this is where it got all of us."

Maggie stares at the light fixtures on the wall with a gaze that's far, far away from Grey-Sloan.

"...I'll take it to him."

Richard pauses. His hearing isn't exactly getting _better_ with age, but...

"I'm sorry?"

"I'll take the thank-you letter to Jackson."

"...Don't you have enough on your plate? It's a ways out there."

Maggie leans her head to one side to give him a look _far_ too reminiscent of Catherine at her most sarcastic.

"Don't _you?_ "

If that's what she wants. Richard hands her the envelope without further complaint. Maggie takes it like it's made of glass.

"Thanks. Also, how's, um..." She twists her mouth around, winces a little. "Is Sabi...Sabrina..." She stops and shakes her head. "You know what...never mind, I'll just...call."

Aaand _that's_ the first bad idea he's heard from her in a long time. That family was another bomb waiting to go off, an implosion of stress she didn't need to add to her to-do list quite yet. Grief was such a tricky little thing. It was able to wedge its way between just about anything, thin enough and sticky enough to be confused for glue. Maggie was responsible for saving their daughter's life...and she was, in grief's eyes, responsible for putting her on life support. Maggie was the newest addition to their family...and, as such, the _worst_ thing that happened to the family.

"...Maggie, if you need help, you need to ask for it. I'm not about to have you throw a table through a window next."

The joke doesn't land. Maggie nods curtly, like he just told her to double-check the schedule, and excuses herself. Richard sighs. He leans back, closes his eyes to the blue light and commits himself to another waiting game.

Tiring stuff.

***

Ring one. Ring two. Ring three.

Maggie bounces her foot and stares down at her sticky-note scripts, pretending they're a particularly small, particularly flat cheerleading squad. One was an apology for everything, which is, admittedly, a little on the vague side (and still feels like the most honest way to put it). The second is a segue in case she's asked something basic about her job or her day-to-day, where she follows up quickly on how _they_ were doing. The third is a very careful follow-up with her updated heart research. New knowledge that she could use to help Sabi when (if) she got off life support.

Ring one. Ring two. Ring three.

Maggie stares at her phone. Hovers a tentative finger over the call button again. ...They couldn't know her number by now, could they? A low _thump-thump_ signals Amelia's slow, difficult descent down the stairs.

Ring one. Ring two. Ring three.

...Well. At least Meredith still wanted to talk to her, even if it _was_ behind a glass and only for thirty minutes. It's a very defeated breakfast she eats, her mood barely lifted by the, admittedly, delicious coffee Jade's parents have religiously stocked her. She considers bringing a bag to the ward, then promptly shoves the thought into the trash where it belongs. This wasn't a fun little visit, a catch-up session over a mug. This was a _delivery_ , and it'll stay that way.

"Can I have some of that?" Amelia shuffles over, trying to reach into the cupboard around her belly. Maggie reaches up and hands it to her.

"As much as you want. We're pretty much set for _life_."

Her sister tugs open the bag and sniffs the contents.

"That's the good stuff. I can already tell." Amelia opens the grinder and pours some in. "You calling in for another phone call with Mer?"

"Oh, I already did that."

"Ah. Who were you trying to call, then?"

Maggie gives her a hug, tells her it's nothing important, then heads out to the car before she loses her nerve.

***

Wow. The psychiatric ward is... _really_ lovely.

The Western Roth is a place she's seen a few times while scouring industry news, but seeing it in-person is another thing entirely. When she arrives she actually has to take a moment to sit halfway in and out of her car to take it in, the air practically _crackling_ with cleanliness. More than once she's looked at brochures for assisted living homes and the like (before an illness swept her dearest one away, right alongside too many things left unsaid-). It's not _exactly_ the same, not quite. It's as if a luxury apartment complex and a community home met in the middle. Rolling slopes and cobblestone sidewalks and scrupulous rows of trees, the lanterns glowing early to herald the winter evening.

She shouldn't have expected anything less. Mr. Monopoly, getting the best even at his worst. Maggie huffs and snaps the car door shut. Time to get this over with.

It's a relief to walk inside, the air warm and filled with the scent of what _has_ to be gingerbread candles. A pair of patients are sitting down with two handhelds (3DS? That's what they're called, right-), muttering to themselves. Another patient is dozing on the couch, iPod in and hands folded on their stomach. It's all so...relaxing. Quiet. Almost enough to distract her from the fact it's been nearly two months since the breakdown and she has no idea who she's going to talk to in just a few minutes. Before her head can spin right off her shoulders Maggie marches up to the front desk and asks to see their resident Avery. The secretary squints at her over a pair of bold red glasses, like she's trying to recognize her from somewhere.

"All right. Let me check to see if you're on the visitor's list."

Oh, that's right. They had those here, too. Maggie's spine quivers. ...Did he put her down as a contact? Would he _want_?

"Um, my first name is Margaret, but everyone calls me-" She starts. The secretary interjects with a little _aha!_.

"-Pierce! I knew I recognized you from somewhere. Sign in, please. I'll also need to see identification." She winks. "That rechargeable heart stuff? Out of this world."

Oh, thank goodness. Maggie smiles and scratches down her initials with a trembling hand, then rummages in her purse for her wallet. ...Maybe she should just go. It's not like she signed a blood pact or anything. She could say she left something in the oven and walk right back out. Heck, she had one of the busiest schedules on the planet. Who'd even need to hear her excuse? Her body doesn't obey her deepest wishes, though. Her hand hovers her ID above the desk, promptly plucked from her fingers.

"Thank you, Ms. Pierce."

"You can just call me Maggie."

"Gotcha."

Dang it. Now she's stuck. Maggie leans from foot-to-foot, the shivering anticipation melting into a dizzy lightheadness that threatens to float her off into the sky.

"I'll send out a message. You can wait in the lobby in the meantime." Two shrewd eyes flick over the rim of her glasses. "... _Or_ you can go outside and meet him. He usually jogs around the grounds at this time. It's cold, though, so-"

"Yeah, actually, I'll go do that. Thanks." Maggie reaches for her purse, then frowns. "Uh...have you seen my purse?"

...Oh, crap. Oh, crap crap _crap_. This is not how she needs to top off the day. Maggie pats her sides like some ridiculous cartoon character, then whirls around to look at the floor, the door, every last inch of the room she can possibly see. The receptionist sighs. It's a very weird feeling of relief she gets when the woman stands and calls out:

" _Darla!_ "

This little old lady is ushered over by one of the aides, prunish and cute with a fuzzy little pixie cut. ...Where the hell did _she_ come from? Her purse is plucked from her hands and handed to her with an exaggerated wince.

"So sorry about that." The aide says. This apparently happened often. Darla grins.

"My granddaughter's got the same taste. Thinks she lives in a fashion magazine, t'ch."

Maggie returns with a stretched out smile of her own.

"I'm sure my blood pressure can take it."

She walks out of the door as quickly as she can, the aide's gentle chides at her back.

For the tail end of November, it's still pretty nice out. Enough to make her ache for those sister-jogs with Meredith and Amelia. Maggie tries to swallow down the loneliness as she strolls up the long, curving hill leading away from the main facility. Light frost dusts the grass like powder, sparkling in the lantern light. She pulls out her phone and starts to take a photo, something for the kids to appreciate when she gets back home...then thinks better of it. Maybe it's...best not to create keepsakes of a day like this. She stuffs it back in her pocket, and keeps walking.

Every time she hears the drum of footsteps butterflies kick up in her stomach. The first time it's an old man, not jogging so much as shuffling doggedly with his arms at a determined ninety-degree angle. The second time it's a young woman, steam engine trail clinging to the air all the way down the slope. The sight of her fluffy hair reminds her of that little joke Adair said about her patient-to-be. Maggie sits down on a bench (somehow free of frost) and pulls out her phone, connecting to the ward's wi-fi and looking up Ironheart. Her jaw drops. Wow. Jade really _does_ look like the main character.

Another soft _crunch-crunch_ of footsteps crackles the air. She ignores it, scrolling down to the synopsis of the Iron Man spin-off (how has she never heard of this) and reading about her history (Zola could totally kill this look for next year's Halloween, no problem). ...Then she feels it. A familiar... _hum_ in the air. Maggie slowly looks up to Jackson's flushed face and blue running jacket, framed this time by fall leaves instead of buildings.

"...Hey."

She really thought she'd stop spinning.

***

The sky's not thick enough to snow yet. If anything, it smells like it'll rain. Seattle weather has only gotten stranger these past few years. It never quite makes up its mind, aloof in its own little island of sea salt and coffee.

"...How's it been?"

"...Boring."

She snorts. He doesn't. It might not have been a joke.

It's a quiet, awkward walk through the grounds. Every time she glances his way there's a new detail. How can someone look so young and so old at the same _time?_ He shaved religiously back when he was with Vic, both head and jaw, then hasn't seemed to touch a razor _since_. His beard is thick, just shy of bushy. His hair, strangely enough, isn't as long as it was when he was with her. It's a little cropped, barely enough to form curls, the dark color contrasting his pale pallor even worse. It's a Jackson that's walked out of a fog, a warped and blurry Polaroid.

Maggie doesn't realize how hard she's staring until he looks at her, baggy eyes almost as curious as they are tired.

"...Place looks nice." She says. Jackson nods.

"Thanks. I made it myself."

Maggie blinks. Frowns. ...This was _another_ Avery asset? Sheesh. She should've known. They have fingers in just about _every_ pie. Jackson huffs without smiling, scuffing at a layer of frost on the otherwise pristine walkway.

"I'm joking."

Maggie resists the urge to facepalm. ...Right.

An older woman jogs by in a red tracksuit and waves at them. Jackson waves back, a demur little flick of the wrist, then stuffs his hands back into his pockets. Not so much as a plastic smile. The only detail newer than that are the hollows in his cheeks. A contradictory scratch announces itself, then, right in the back of her mind and smelling of fresh deli sandwiches. ...No. No, this wasn't new at _all_.

"It's _freezing_." Everything about him is so out-of-sync. As exhausted as he looks he still has legs a mile long, each stride keeping him _just_ a pace ahead. She speeds up. "How are you jogging right now?"

"I just keep moving."

Sheesh. She loved her twice-weekly jogs, but even she had her limits. He could probably stand to cut back. She really doesn't like the way his cheekbones jut out.

"You look a little thin." Maggie says, leaning forward to get a better look. She leans right back again when Jackson rolls his jaw. Instantly annoyed.

"...That a statement or a question?"

Maggie's chest prickles. She shrugs and looks away, trying to disguise the hurt with whatever's on the ground. ...There's nothing. The place is spotless.

"I'm just...whatever." She steams for a few seconds. When he makes no move to continue their (rather weak) thread of conversation she _sighs_. "Look, I'm just trying to _help-_ "

Jackson stops walking, so abruptly she nearly runs into him.

"I'm _getting_ help."

"Help with what, exactly? Because you look _awful_."

Maggie inwardly cringes the second the last syllable hits the air. She didn't mean it to sound quite like that. Jackson passes a hand over his mouth (thin, pink scars etching into the knuckles-) and sniffs through the frigid air, his expression _just_ south of a scowl.

"Well, forgive me, but you look jumped up and ready to fray."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means this time _you're_ the kettle."

Oh, he's going to refer to the time he refused to fess up and apologize like an adult? Two can play at that game. It's a game she's had no _choice_ but to become an expert on. Maggie steps into his space (and tries not to think about how he leans back, still weirdly startled at minor things as he's been since the parking lot-).

"No, no, _you're_ still the kettle. Only way you'd be more so is if you stuck a tea bag in your mouth and puffed steam out of your ears."

As if to commend the statement a sharp breeze picks up, ruffling what seems like the few stray leaves in the _entire_ ward with a clatter. Maggie grits her teeth to keep them from chattering. Jackson doesn't so much as shiver, as motionless as a mannequin.

"...I'm getting help, Maggie. I'm literally fucking stuck in this place until I can walk and talk like a regular person again. I have to journal every single thought in my head, every crap I take, commit to a schedule and a slew of sessions that analyze the way I breathe and _blink_. What to eat, when to sleep, I can't even handle sharp objects without someone watching me out of the corner of my eye." He rubs at his reddening nose. "I'm getting help, more help than I can fucking stand, but who's helping _you?_ "

Jackson isn't foggy anymore. His gaze fillets her open with the quintessential precision of his trade and lays out every last throbbing, meaty part on the table, whether she likes it or not. Maggie looks to the left. The right. Anywhere else.

"...You're not talking to anybody about it." He murmurs, like he suddenly has the entire picture spread out and he's taking stock. Maggie shakes her head, hard.

"L-Look, I will. I just _can't_ right now."

"What does that mean, you 'can't'? 'Can't', as in, you'll overcompensate and throw yourself into work and hope being hardheaded will be enough to clear the hurdle?"

Wow. It would've been kinder if he'd just slapped her. Maggie holds a shaking finger up to his face.

"You...you have no _right_ saying that to me. _No right_. These past few months you ran a side-hustle being the world's most...emotionally constipated _jerkass_ and you're telling _me_ I'm doing something wrong by timing my meltdown?" She swings her arms up in mock amazement. "Wow. Look at you. Deepak Avery, Mr. Overnight Psychology Expert."

"Timing your...Maggie, what is going on?" Jackson ignores the jibe, rubbing the cold from his hands with a sudden glint in his eyes. "Is this about the rechargeable heart research?"

 _Damn_ this man. _Damn_ him and his ability to be thoughtful and attentive and supportive when it's convenient! When _he_ has the upper-hand, all perfectly fucked up in the right place at the worst time. Maggie shakes her head so hard she can't see. She loathes the burn in her nose, the burn that says she's going to say a lot of stupid things if she doesn't get out of here and _quick_. Jackson takes a step forward. She automatically takes a step back, a new pattern in a dance they didn't practice for and know perfectly.

"No. You _had_ time to talk to me. _All_ the time in the world, when I completed the third most successful surgery in the country. When I was taking care of the kids while my sister was off in court. Actually, I'm still taking care of them, while she's off in _jail_ and doing community service all day! Can't even talk to her more than once every other week. Not that _you'd_ know anything about the fallout. You just ran off to be best friends with trees and left me for a...a _thing_ you couldn't even name properly."

Jackson was never good at hiding his guilt. He could hide just about _everything_ else, but this emotion? It crawls all over him like a breakout of hives. She watches his throat bob, then the restless dart of his eyes, landing everywhere but her. ...It's overdue. Long, _long_ overdue, and not in a place like this. Where he can fall back on being sick and handwave all the ways he peeled her apart. Jackson rubs at his jaw ( _why does he keep doing that_ ) and sighs heavily.

"...Okay. Okay. Then tell me I'm wrong." He stares her down again, gaze still too aware for all the distance built between them. "Tell me I'm wildly off-base and I'll back off."

"You're..." Her mouth hovers, uselessly. " _You're_..." She snaps her mouth shut and waves a hand, uselessly. "It's not that. It's not that I'm bad at my job. I know I'm good at what I do and I have _literally_ hundreds of patients, awards and recommendations to prove it. I don't need you regurgitating the _sky_ is blue."

"Then what _is_ it, Maggie? What has you buckling in the wind, so much so you won't ask anyone to hold you up?"

It's not fair. None of it. Not the way he says it. Says... _that_ , says her name, says everything. Somehow, somehow, he speaks just as he always has, like nothing's changed. That same tone, where they snuck in an extra hour dozing at his apartment. When she's hunched over a textbook riding the cresting high of not enough sleep and he brings her a bag of chips and a soda. Maggie crosses her arms to push back the chill, gripping her coat until her knuckles ache. Jackson rubs his temple with one hand, blinking wearily at the ground.

"...You're not alone, Maggie. I know Meredith's absence is hard on you, on top of your work at the hospital and all the people you have to take care of. How it's like juggling plates. Just...don't isolate yourself because you're angry at me or because you're scared or anything like that. Don't let _me_ and what I did be the reason, or a reason, you don't get the help you deserve."

Maggie looks down at her feet. ...And that's the least fair thing of them all. The fact he's _right_. She looks back up when he shuffles his feet, crackling the dead leaves.

"I don't..." Jackson takes a shuddering breath, rubbing his nose again, then feeling along his beard. "I think I'm..."

Then he's hitting the ground in a dead faint, and the world freezes.

***

"I'm not trying to be passive-aggressive, I just need to know if this facility is doing its _job_."

"Ma'am, you're a cardiologist. Not a psychiatrist."

"Then who _is_ , if patients are collapsing and nobody even seems...surprised about it?"

It's a dumb thing to say. Being calm in the face of pain is the nature of the medical field. She's just...so _scared_. She thought the worst was behind her, but seeing him on the ground and not waking up has everything feeling far too brittle. One of the lead nurses, a tiny woman named Hina, is now crossing her arms and looking both tired _and_ frustrated. A few patients glance their way as they walk by, hardly bothered by what's probably just another turn of events. Combined with the pity in the nurse's eyes the whole situation feels worse than a thousand embarrassing cocktail parties.

"Here."

Maggie lets herself be shuffled off to a corner of the room, though no further than that. She'd get answers here, and she was going to get them _now_.

"He didn't hit his head, did he?"

"Not from what we could see."

"I can check. I've worked on head-related trauma before."

Hina runs fingers through her dark bob, eyebrows raised like she just started spouting Greek poetry.

"Ms. Pierce...when's the last time you visited a psychiatric ward?"

"...Never. This is my first time." This isn't helping her case. Maggie follows up quickly. "I had a co-worker go, for a time. I mean, _another_ co-worker, besides this one. I'm not new to the concept."

"But you've never actually been?"

"No. No, I...haven't."

Hina tilts her head back and observes her quietly. Oh. This is a look she knows. This woman is about to break HIPAA, something she _should_ nip in the bud, but Jackson won't share. He won't talk, because that's not part of the Avery _brand_. A small part of her grows hot and defiant at the thought, prodding her in the back and whispering in her ear. It feels like the sensation she got back in the hospital parking lot. The one in the ambulance lot, too. Contradicting what she's seeing and feeling with the gentleness of a doting mother.

_Not won't. Can't._

"The Western Roth differs from your average psychiatric ward in that we don't chip away at people's sanity, push out the blunted result to the world and call it progress. We model ourselves closer to an assisted living facility." Hina's smile looks rare. "If this sounds scripted, that's because it is, and you can thank the founder for making sure we never go off-model. It's true, though. Our patients are given more freedom than most, which is a double-edged word. It can manifest as isolating one's self in the game room for two hours and it can manifest as, say, dead-to-the-world naps in the middle of the day."

Maggie stares at the woman, trying to suss out the glint in her eyes. ...Oh. Clever. She's giving her general advice and letting her make the connections. A win-win. So...Jackson was sleeping at odd hours? Back when he was with her he was a strict morning owl, always up an hour ahead of her, no matter the schedule.

"Obviously we don't just leave everyone to their own devices. It's a delicate balance and something we work hard to maintain. We encourage everyone here to move as much as possible, in any way they see fit." She continues, mild and practiced. "The recommended amount of exercise is once per day. Too much exercise, as you already know, is still unhealthy. Particularly when paired with uneven diets, poor sleeping patterns or recovering addiction."

Oh. He's exercising too much. She had a feeling about that. The only people she can imagine enjoying jogging in twenty-two degree weather are native Finlanders.

"Inconsistent appetites are also common with mental illness."

...He's not eating. A lump grows in her throat. She had a feeling about that, too.

"We are one of the few well-funded mental health facilities in the state of Washington, with twice the budget of the average residence and with quite a few hard-working people here. Psychiatric hospitals may be more polished than they were in the 1800's, but they run on the same logic. That everyone here is to be buffed and sculpted back into model citizens, lasting change be damned. Trust me when I say we are doing the best we can." Hina fiddles with her bangs, despite the fact they look painted on. "And, yes, I _have_ memorized the brochure back-to-back."

Leaving him here to wither away isn't in the cards. She doesn't have a choice. Like so many things these past few months, she doesn't have a _choice_. Maggie follows Hina out of the lobby and into another section of the ward, spacious and warm. Judging by the clatter of silverware and rumbling conversation to her right, they're near the cafeteria.

"You're more than welcome to help yourself to the cafeteria." Hina tells her before she leaves. "We have a rather delicious winter stew."

It begs the question...does she _want_ to have a choice about this?

"Thank you."

The cafeteria workers are kind to her. They don't question when she asks for two bowls, simply commenting on the weather and telling her she got some snow in her hair (wait, what-). The short, long trip through the halls she thinks about how Jackson always brought _her_ food. Always trying to feed her, one way or another.

The door is unlocked (and left open at a crack). It's a nice little room. Cleaner than she thought it'd be. Jackson in the bathroom, the door closed (also left open at a crack) and the faucet hissing in on-and-off passes. Maggie carefully sets down the bowls of soup on a wooden tray by the bed (deliciously hot, her stomach reminds her with a pang). It's tempting to dig in, but...no. Not yet. She doesn't take off her coat, sitting down and studying the room. He always favored a minimalist approach, typical of people in his money bracket, but this is pretty sparse, even for him.

The Jackson From Before _loved_ buying original art. Actual originals, ever the rich boy, though she'd be lying if it wasn't for a good cause. She's sure he single-handedly finances today's black painters, sometimes purchasing giant abstract splatters and other times glittering portraits. He also loved his fancy lamps, maybe a very meticulously placed and maintained plant. Just the one, which was eternally weird for a man who openly lusted after nature. Her buzzing phone jolts her out of the cloudy thoughts. Maggie grins at the photo: Zola, making a peace sign in front of her school. She must've just gotten out of club.

_wrote in your journal today??, Zola, sent 6:19 p.m._

She's midway through her reply when she realizes the faucet's off. Maggie looks up at Jackson standing not a foot away, mopping water off his face with a rag and looking like he's seen a ghost.

"H-Hey." She smiles. "...I got some soup from the cafeteria."

She promptly gets up and tugs over a chair to sit at the tray. Jackson, curiously enough, doesn't play up willful ignorance or outright protest. It's like he's dough, rolled as thin as possible without tearing. He quietly zips off his jacket and hangs it up, then wordlessly slumps on the edge of the bed.

"...Thanks."

The next few minutes are the sound of soup occasionally broken up by snatches of pop music from next door.

It's pretty good. Better than the hospital food, at any rate (which smacks _way_ too close to high school for comfort). She wants to see if the color has returned to his face, if he's staring off into nothingness again or scratching at his face. Almost two months, yet the gap between them feels as thick as a year. Maggie leans a little bit to see if there's a bruise or a bump or a scrape, even though she _saw_ him fall into the grass. When Jackson looks her way she pretends to glance at something on her phone. As if hearing her plea, it buzzes with another message.

_dont be a soda can! also, can we have pasta tonight, Zola, sent 6:34 p.m._

_I'm trying. How about lasagna?, Maggie, sent 6:35 p.m._

She waits for the text to go through, then double-checks her calendar, _then_ her notes, a nagging feeling like she's forgetting something poking her in the head. Her life really does feel like juggling plates. She looks back up and pauses at the sight of Jackson staring over his bowl. ...At her. Maggie's mind goes blank.

"...What?" Her mouth says, once it re-establishes a connection to her brain. Jackson's got a similar problem, apparently, because he aims the spoon at his mouth and hits his cheek instead.

"I just wanted to thank you for the, uh." He hastily wipes his face, flicks his fingers off. "Soup."

"You thanked me already."

Jackson blinks. He nods, jerkily as if embarrassed, and doesn't look at her.

"...Right."

He nibbles on his spoon for a second before dipping it back into the bowl. Maggie watches him push the vegetables around disinterestedly, eventually committing to a tiny piece. He chews like he's forgotten how.

"...Better than Grey-Sloan's food?" She tries. Jackson's eyes flick up.

"...Way better. They actually use seasonings here."

"Right? I keep saying salt doesn't count, but I've yet to have anyone there believe me."

A smile flickers on his face, more suggestion than a fact.

"So. You've got a rechargeable heart patient." He snorts softly. "About time."

Perfect timing, really, because she wouldn't have wanted the Harper Avery award within five hundred yards of it. It's not a sentiment she needs to air out. Maggie tries to bite back the automatic smile, a hot pop of glee curling in her stomach at the quiet pride in his eyes. She fiddles with one of her curls.

"So...read my interview in the paper, I'm guessing?"

"I don't look at the news here." _Now_ he smiles, a slow and careful peek of sunshine around a raincloud. "I can just tell, is all."

Jackson Avery. Deepak Chopra _and_ mind reader extraordinaire.

"Yeah, she's... _amazing_." Maggie says, fondness crawling all over at just the thought of that proud little girl, always trying to one-up her own lofty goals. "Came _all_ the way from California for the trial. Her parents are really eclectic, don't think I've ever met any family members _that_ eager to have their kid get surgery, much less try out experimental technology. It's really refreshing. I mean, I wouldn't _blame_ them if they were more nervous, but...it's nice? I don't know. Someone's got to be confident about it. I'm really glad it's them."

"I remember Nico saying she kept trying to handstand in and out of the bathroom. Walked back out holding a toilet paper roll with her feet?" Jackson adds, cocking an eyebrow. Maggie nearly snorts her broth, reaching up to cough inelegantly into her palm. He hands her a napkin, which she gratefully takes.

"Ow. Ha, yeah, she's a sports all-star and she's _not_ shy about everyone knowing it. She wants to try out for the Olympics someday." As it always does, the fondness and dizzying ambition chills with caution. "Kind of...ironic, the person who's signed up for the new rechargeable heart program is also the person most likely to burn it out prematurely."

Jackson watches her steadily in his hunch. He takes a bite out of a lump of a potato and chews as slowly as a cow.

"...You've got this."

It takes her a second to realize what he's referring to, or maybe it doesn't and she's just clinging to denial. Maggie swallows hard and looks down into her bowl, her high deflating like a wet balloon. ...Easy for him to say. He hasn't had a patient die on him in a long time. At least, not for anything he could've prevented (she spares a thought for Nisha, for CeCe, gone _far_ too soon). Heck, this man somehow managed to save Derek's life with a gun to his head. It's something she can't even dream of, much less accept as real, but...it is real. He's real, thirty-seven going on fifty-seven with a patch in his beard and bags under his eyes.

Her fingers itch with the need to reach out and touch him, confirm with all her senses this isn't a surreal sequel to their talk in the park. Maggie takes another bite of soup, instead, and grips her knee with the other.

"You saved April's life. When everyone had given up." Jackson pushes a chunk of beef around. "Myself included."

Maggie blinks.

"You're keeping Meredith's family together while she's gone. That's a lot."

Why...is he saying all this? For that matter, why is the room turning blurry? Maggie rubs at her eyes, then takes another bite of soup. He's right, she _did_ do that, and _is_ doing that, but for some reason her winning streak's been put on ice, anyway. She couldn't save her mother. No, she actually made her condition _worse_. He was there during that whole miserable mistake, he saw it all, and he's saying this? She barely saved Sabi, a job that was _tailor-made_ for her! Oh, she can absolutely hold this kid's life in her hands and not drop it into a million pieces onto the floor. It'll be easier than pie.

"Maggie."

She crushes her eyes shut, hard enough to see stars. ...Why does he have to say her name like that? It doesn't help. It doesn't help at _all_. When she opens them again Jackson is doing another unhelpful thing, huddling over his soup and staring at her with a grey glint in his eyes. Like he's read something crappy in a newspaper clipping and is trying to process it.

"You saved..." He pauses. "...you _save_...so many people." He clears his throat, a cough that sounds a touch too deep to just be nerves, then nods to himself. "In so many ways. It's hard to see it when you're in the thick of it, but...everything's clearer on the mountaintop, and you're still climbing."

He's always been good at flipping the script against her. Too bad it's not true. She wishes it was, though. She really, _really_ does.

"You said it's boring here?" She asks, glancing around the room, even though there's not much to look at. "Sounds kind of nice, to be honest."

Jackson studies her beneath his brows. For once, he shows her a little mercy and doesn't comment on the dodge.

"It is...kind of nice. Feels like I'm a teenager again. Got a curfew and three square meals and game nights. Might take a sculpting class." He shrugs, pauses to swallow thickly. "...Mm. There's this older woman who never leaves me alone. Steals stuff all the time. Always beats me at checkers on game night. _No_ clue how she does it. Don't get me started on poker."

"What? You have a seriously good poker face, though." Jackson during game nights was always a tough time. People _loved_ to underestimate him for some reason. He was the type of player to lean back, enjoy himself with no visible strings attached, then randomly snag a _mess_ of points in the final round. The man's mouth twists with a wry smile. He shakes his head.

"I know. But hers is better, trust me."

"Now I'm scared _for_ you." Maggie scrapes at the bottom of the bowl for one last bite, then halts midway. "Wait...you don't mean that little old lady with the white hair? Short white hair?"

"Hm? Yeah. That's Darla."

"Oh." Maggie takes a very slow sip of her broth. "...She stole my purse."

Jackson blinks. Maggie blinks back. His mouth twitches. Her breath catches in her chest. The man rolls his mouth, tries to temper the sounds bubbling up through his nose by rolling his eyes down to the floor. She covers her mouth with her wrist, bites her tongue. ...Then, in a blink, they're both dissolving into helpless, hiccuping laughter. It's all Jackson can do to wheeze the words out, leaning to one side on the bed and holding his stomach.

"She stole my _watch_ , first week I was here. Thought I just forgot it somewhere, then she showed up at the cafeteria wearing it around her neck like a choker-"

"Wow, that's pretty fashion-forward-" Maggie gasps, holding her sides and trying not to sink out of hr chair. "I'd probably see her with my purse around her, around her neck like a necklace-"

" _Shh_ , she might hear you-" Jackson tosses his head back, covering his eyes. "Oh, god, or a _hat-_ "

Then he makes some sort of purse shape with both of his hands, right on top of his head, and she's _finished_. Oh, it's that kind of good, soul enriching laughter she hasn't felt in _far_ too long. The kind that leaves her stomach sore and every breath a hitch. It's done Jackson a favor, too. There's a rosy flush in his cheeks. Stars in his eyes. If she numbs out the sound of unfamiliar voices talking down the hall, ignores the tender blandness of this little room, it's like they're right back where they used to be.

"Do me a favor and, uh, don't tell her about this. She'll probably take it to heart and steal my shoes next." Jackson chuckles, swiping at his eyes. Maggie opens her mouth to assure him she won't, he has her _word_ , but what comes out instead is:

"It's so good to see you."

Jackson's smile fades. Maggie hastily looks down at her bowl (empty). His hands (one smooth, the other scarred). Anywhere but... _damn._

"I mean, like...it's good to see you here. Getting the help you need. I'm...really glad."

Jackson blinks at her, slowly. He looks like he's about to say something, probably as crushing as a stool through a window. Instead he pushes off the bed, makes his way over to the trash and starts coughing.

"...Jackson?"

Maggie's heart leaps in her chest. Oh, _crap_. Is he choking? It's not until she's jumped out of the chair and halfway over before the sound hits her ears differently. ...Oh. He's not choking. He's just throwing up his lunch. She watches his back work in fitful, jerking motions. Why was he addicted to this...masochistic punishment? Maybe he would be able to keep it down if he wouldn't refuse perfectly good meals, on yet another martyr quest.

That voice returns. Soft, and firm.

_Not won't. Can't._

As soon as it started, it's over. Jackson reaches up a shaking hand to the drawer against the wall and yanks out a clump of tissues, bunching them into a ball and mopping off his mouth, then beard. He stands up, spits, then just stares. Maggie's hand hovers in the air, a useless weight an inch from his shoulder. The distance between her and him is farther than she could've ever thought possible. It doesn't make any sense. He'd been _so_ hungry out on that park bench...

"Why...why haven't you been eating?" She starts, because she has to start _somewhere_. Jackson rubs his nose and sniffs.

"...I'm sorry, Maggie."

It's a weird thing to apologize for, but she gets it. Patients do it all the time, when their bodies automatically purge and they get more wrapped up in embarrassment than logic.

"It's fine, nobody _wants_ to throw up-" She course-corrects, quickly. "I mean, unless they drank too much or something, it's kind of a relief at that point-"

"About what I did."

Wait... _what?_ Maggie's hands start to shake, a faint ringing starting up in her ears. Jackson straightens and rolls his shoulders, then his neck in a slow swing. Pulling himself together little-by-little, even though that'd be like trying to pull together spilled beer.

"It wasn't right."

Wait.

"I hurt you."

...No.

"I left in...an awful way. Did some awful things, said some awful things. About you and what we had."

Wait, wait, no. No, no, _no_.

"You didn't deserve any of that, Maggie. You also don't deserve to be dealing with...all this." When he turns he's smiling, or maybe it could be _called_ a smile, if it didn't quiver so much. "You deserve better."

No. _No._ This isn't how it works. He can't just...expect this whole agonizing, aching _mess_ to be wrapped up with a sorry bow, just like that. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't _fit_. The railroad of her thoughts takes no time to pick up speed, careening through all the minor and major details that have been laid out ever since he compared their relationship to a _death drop_. Maggie jumps up and grabs her coat, flinging it on quicker than she ever has before.

"Maggie...?" Jackson's voice turns sharp when she flings open the door and books it down the hall. "Where are you going!" Then, aching and awful: " _ **Maggie!**_ "

The secretary looks startled when she walks up.

"I'm signing back out." Maggie scratches down a sloppy signature. "Thank you for everything."

The second she steps foot outside the wind buffets her coat, whips her hair around into such a flurry she has to pause to gain her footing. Oh, she should've listened to Webber and let him take the stupid letter. It seems somewhere along the way on her Grey-Sloan journey her brain took a detour and decided to major not in strokes of genius, but in one ridiculous screw-up after another.

"Queen of the science nerds. Queen of hearts. Queen of bad ideas." She mutters as she fumbles for her keys. "I'm _tired_ of being queen."

Jackson was always too roundabout. Too much of a coward to say what was on his mind. She, just like Vic, just like who _knows_ how many more women, was a pit stop on his way to nowhere. Her hand shakes so much she drops the keys. Maggie curses and ducks down to snatch them up.

" _Maggie_."

There's an edge to his voice. Not the kind that sparked at random, but a focused _point_ , aimed right at her with great prejudice.

"Maggie, for Christ's sake, just wait-" Jackson leans on his knees and pants, heavy bursts of white that get whipped away in the wind. He looks ready to collapse all over again. "-for one damn second-"

"No, I get it. You couldn't get further away from me if you could." Maggie wipes the key off on her pants, inwardly cursing when it leaves a smudge. "One way or another you make it _perfectly_ clear."

" _What?_ No!" He leans up off his knees, still huffing fog that doesn't quite obscure the horrible light in his eyes. "That's not what I said. I'm saying...I didn't know what the hell I was doing, all that you dealt with, that wasn't _me_ , not...not totally. I'm not ducking responsibility, Maggie, or trying to shove you away or anything like that, it's just so much of it were these things I didn't even have a name for-"

"Don't! Just...don't." She holds up a palm. "I told you it was a bad idea from the start. I knew something would happen. I _knew_ it. You had too much...too much _baggage_ and I didn't have nearly enough experience and something was just bound to happen, something awful that we could've avoided if we stayed friends." She sniffs, bitterly. "Except I'm not even a friend. I'm an annoying nuisance you had to practically run away from."

"You're not. You're anything _but_ that, Maggie, trust me-"

" _I did trust you!_ "

Jackson jerks back.

"I made the mistake of trusting you, trusting you with everything I had in me, and you shattered me like _glass_." Maggie's mouth twists, shivers. She refuses to rub at her eyes, even though everything's turning wispy. "You broke me, Jackson. I...I never thought you could hate me so _much_."

Jackson slides a hand down his mouth, eyes glittering over his fingers and his head stuck in a long, morose shake. Again, he flips the script: _he's_ not the one bleeding and rambling this time. Then he takes one, slow, horrible step toward her, hands lifting up like he's trying to catch her, stop her from falling to pieces. She can't let him touch her. If he closes that gap, infinitesimally large and suddenly too small and too close, she'll _crack_. Lean forward and break in those strong arms, burrow right back into that chest and fall into step with that beautiful heartbeat she misses so hard she can't even goddamn _sleep_ right anymore.

"Maggie-"

His fingers brush her arms, start to grip her coat, to pull her close or hold her or just pet her until the rest of her falls out good and proper-

" _No_." She shoves hands on his chest and pushes him away, stumbles back and startles when her back hits the car door. "N-No, don't. I'm...I'm going now. Okay? I'm done. I'm done, with all of this." She shoves the key in into the lock and twists it, bites her lip when it doesn't budge. "Just going to go home-"

Even with her back turned, she can't escape. In the reflection of her car window she can see those seaglass eyes, the guilt and desperation there swapped out for a dark, angry _hurt_ -

"God, you _always_ turn tail and run." Jackson hisses. " _Always_."

"Excuse you?" Maggie whirls around. "I'm _not_ running."

"Walking, then. Strolling. _Shuffling_."

"Knock it off, now's not the time for a stupid joke!"

Jackson doesn't move closer, but he steps to one side. Then the other. Haunting the invisible boundary between them, rubbing his stupid beard, staring at her with his stupid all-knowing look.

"You keep saying you're done, keep saying you think I hate you, but you keep coming back. Why? Stop beating around the bush and just tell me _why_."

Maggie gapes. Jackson lifts his arms up in a half-shrug, then drops them back down again.

"There. That. See? That's what I'm trying to _tell_ you. What sense does it make, coming all the way over here just to want to leave? You don't...you don't need to come here to flee, you don't-" His eyes glint, just like the growing snow, like shattered glass- "-have to _see_ me anymore."

Is _that_ what he thinks this is? A kindness? What got rattled around in his head so badly that he thinks cutting her off a _second time_ is doing her a favor? This can't be the same man that held her up on that porch swing. The same man who brought her an apple during a cram session, the same man who insisted on sharing the credit for saving a boy's life, even though all she'd contributed that day was an old saying from her mother at the right time and the right place.

"Because you don't _want_ me to. Just say it. Say it, one more time, now that you're getting all this big fancy help, so I can move _on_."

It cracks. Whatever he was holding onto, it cracks. Jackson grinds his teeth.

"Maggie, I didn't _say_ that. When the hell did you get so fucking stubborn? I said some really hurtful things, I know, but I'm not saying that _now_."

"It doesn't matter what you tell me, because that's what you _showed_ me-"

"I can't take that _back!_ " He holds his hands out, leans a little, just a knee shy of begging. "I _wish_ I could scrub away history, I wish I could go back and undo it all, every single day I've been here. You don't know how badly-"

Hina's dark head peers out of the ward's front doors, followed by an older man. Their screaming match is starting to attract attention. As far as she's concerned, there's no one else around.

"-because you keep trying to throw yourself onto some imaginary train tracks-" Maggie flings an arm out toward the swooping, pristine grounds. "Not eating, not sleeping, running all over the place, throwing up, you think that's going to scrub everything away and turn you into the _good guy?_ "

Jackson goes still. A hot stripe of guilt cuts through her at the look on his face.

"That's...that's not _fair-_ " He points at the ward, voice cracking. "You think I'm doing all this on purpose?"

She hit too hard. She should take it back. She can't. Give someone an inch and they'll take a mile, and in just fifteen minutes they've managed to do a cross-country _loop_. Jackson looks like he's about to melt again, she's sure she already is, and she has to _leave_. They were going to go around in circles. Around and around until one of them crashed, because the only way to stop an immovable object was an unstoppable force. Dropping her keys was a blessing in disguise, it seems, because it suddenly hits her what she forgot.

"I didn't come here just to run away, as you so deftly put it." Maggie reaches into her bag and yanks out the envelope. "I came to give you _this_."

Jackson fumbles the letter when she shoves it into his chest, nearly drops it. His are eyes still stuck to her, shining and round.

"What...what is this-"

Her car door (finally) swings open. Maggie shoves the keys in the ignition.

"A letter from your patient. Malani Patel."

She twists on the engine.

"You told me not to give up before something even started." She slams the door so hard her hand stings. " _You_ gave up. Not me."

It's not until days later does she face the truth of it all. That she thought she'd already laid everything they had to rest, and steeled herself for the grief to follow. Then she stepped foot on Western Roth and faced a Jackson not cruel, but sick. Not loathsome, but struggling. Not loving, too tired and self-loathing and lost for a concept like love, and yet, still, _somehow_ , loving her. Maggie pulls out of the driveway, Jackson's thin silhouette barely distinguishable from the lamp posts. No, she's going to face something worse than grief.

Forgiveness.

***

The trees have just about shaken themselves of all their leaves, but this wisdom hasn't yet drifted to the ones with beating hearts.

She drives a little too fast down the icy roads. Tempers herself only after she's nearly bumped into the car in front of her. Dearest one. Sweet thing. Forgiveness isn't always a salve, but when it can be, to heal isn't to surrender. The breeze carries the whisper, twining through the clap of the car door, then the front door, then the bedroom door. Trembling the windows as she weeps into her hands, bleeding salt in lieu of iron.

* * *

_Fast food. Fast culture. Fast life. Good things come to those who wait, but that's hard to remember when waiting feels like the problem._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist posting this chapter a little early. This whole fic is being yanked out of me like my soul during my viewing of Frozen a few years ago. ...I _really_ didn't like that movie.
> 
> Two tropes I'm very careful of when writing romances, of _any_ stripe, are pining and dramatic arguments. Both are woefully overdone -- often to stretch out drama or reach a wordcount -- and this fic has been a fun exercise as a result. Honestly, there's no excuse for these tropes to be as obnoxious as they are, not when you get to the root of the conflict. _Why_ can't these characters reconcile any sooner? Is it a reason that seems remotely believable in their set-up and/or personality? Does this conflict _build_ tension or does it make the reader check their watch? Christ, so _many_ stories would be less of a slog if these questions weren't skipped in the rough draft stage.
> 
> I won't be posting another chapter until after the holidays, so I hope you enjoy this one over your mugs of hot chocolate, cider or eggnog with hooch!


	6. been there

**Song Inspiration:** "Can't Get Close" by Sampha

*

_oh, love, you've taken me over_

_oh, love, you've taken me, oh, love, you've taken me apart_

_and then you can't get close_

* * *

_Most medical professionals will tell you once isn't usually enough_.

_There are exceptions, of course. Sometimes a patient just needs a vaccine that does the trick. A smidgen of Neosporin and a carefully placed bandage, off you go. Serious injuries, though, take more than one step. Several visits, several check-ups, several dosages. Mental health is much the same. When the world gets too heavy and there aren't enough resources to heal the thousand cuts, the mind might need to fall apart several times before it can be pieced back together again._

_That sort of damage...is a lot trickier to quantify._

* * *

_Blue eyes. Blue room. Blue soul._

_She doesn't walk in so much as...drift. Doesn't sit so much as sink. That's the power of this little place, and, until now, she's never felt prouder of all that she's built these past strange, surreal years. For a minute or five Maggie falls in place, enjoying the swoop of the lights and the feel of the wind on her skin, before eventually settling into the firmness of leather cushions and appreciating the sight of him. Jackson's strewn out boneless on the other chair, recently finished with his own freefall. He looks like those gouache paintings her mother loved so much. She doesn't remember the name of that technique, where all the lights and shadows were sliced out in loose ribbons._

_Baby blue sinks into aquamarine. Ebbs with hints of green like pockets of the ocean. It's a mood room, of course. Meant to soothe the synapses, meant to reflect the thoughts of those within. The hue shivers with her fondness for him, her deepest trust, and the buzz that could almost be confused for a song. His hand drifts over for hers. Knits their fingers together to steady the buzzing as he always does. Indigo with peace._

_"Let's just go home." He sounds exhausted. "Order in."_

_"I have to go to my place and order some clean clothes." She confesses, staring at their linked hands. When she rubs a thumb over his knuckles she leaves a trail of glittering teal. "I'm so tired I might just crash there..."_

_"Move in with me."_

_"...What?"_

_The room pulses with the implication of his words. Deepens into a thoughtful navy so deep it's almost black. Chilled a little with the unknown, a glaze of azure over the dark, but it's not quite the feel of snow, nor the sensation of staring through the dark square of an open door. The sensation's much closer to frost coating a beer glass. A wispy little shock curling around something that still promises fizzy warmth. In another time Jackson's eyes were a grey cloud, but here they're the ocean deep, rolling and rich and promising to drown her._

_"...I love you, Maggie. I don't want to...take it for granted. I don't want to miss it." It's as if he's realizing all this as he goes, the pieces slotting together before his very eyes. Jackson even looks from side-to-side, then back up to her, soft smile glowing. "...Yeah. Move in with me."_

_Somewhere between the lurch of her soul and the implicit need to weigh and measure the statement, she kisses him. Jackson tastes like coffee. Raspberry notes, dark chocolate finish. It's odd how he managed to get hands on her new specialty bags, when she was saving it as a surprise for their next date, but there's no time to wonder. Not when he huffs happiness into her mouth and fills her lungs with life. She breathes in, breathes out, repetitions of five for the ocean room, the galaxy box. Their steam clouds sift and spread, thick enough to nudge them off the chairs to the floor._

_"Maggie."_

_She loves the way he says her name. Maybe she didn't need to hear it, like a human needed water and air, but she wanted it, and wasn't that even better?_

_"I'm sorry."_

_The room reflects it all. They're standing now, the light fixtures cracked and flickering, rolling shadows up and down and all around. Maggie stares down at what he's left in her hands. It's a heart, bitter colbalt and pulsing ink all over her fingers._

_"I should've just let go."_

_"Jackson, no, stay with me-"_

_He's not talking about them. He's talking about himself, because he's suddenly too thin, his cheekbones sharp as knives and his skin as pale as a ghost's. Maggie kneels over his limp body and tries to push his heart back into his chest, folding his paper skin as carefully as she's able with so much of his blue filling the room. She begs. She cries. All the while a sun ray spreads over his closed eyes, bringing out the gold his brown skin lost. Just like her mother when she drifted to another cloud on that spring day. A day so perfect someone had to be the pall to it._

_"Jackson? Jackson!"_

_He's not breathing. He hasn't been. Maggie angles his head back, leans down and presses her mouth to his, tries to huff in steam and instead tastes blood. When he doesn't move, as silent as she's always feared, she folds her hands beneath his sternum and starts repetitions. Her rechargeable hearts will save him. She'll install as many as possible until they work, until he works and they work and everything is just like it's supposed to be. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three one-thousand._

_"Don't leave me again."_

_She presses-_

_"Please. It's not fair."_

_-and presses-_

_"You said I deserved better-"_

_-and he shatters into glass._

***

_People say eyes are the windows to the soul. If that's the case, dreams must be the unsecured wi-fi connection. They're so glitchy and weird, but some of the craziest details can leak through. They've inspired me to do some of my best work. I hope they still do._

***

"Rechargeable heart _keychains_ , huh? That's...pretty nifty, I'm not going to lie."

" _ **And** they double as flashlights. Best of all? They're rechargeable when left in the sun for just an hour or so. You'll get free samples, of course. Right alongside one of our t-shirts, designed by our newest intern, and the first slice of that heart cake. Red velvet, I think. You know, to mimic the blood and whatnot. Oh, it'll be the experience of a lifetime._"

"No, no, it all sounds amazing. It _really_ does. I just...don't know if I'll have time for it with everything that's on my plate. My calendar is so full of dates and notes it looks like graffiti art."

" _I totally understand, I do, but, if you'll pardon the cliche...you're not a robot. You deserve a break as much as the next person. Plus, you're the one who everyone's going to want to see! The catalyst that brought this revolutionary technology to the world, a genius from the word go and the daughter of one of today's best surgeons. It doesn't even have to be very long, just ten or fifteen minutes on that opening speech, then a little meet-and-greet. Please. The whole presentation will feel naked without you_."

"That's...an interesting way to put it." Maggie checks her watch. Time to check back in. She leans against the wall and puts a hand over her chest, silently counting the beats. "...Let me think on it."

She takes out her phone and starts punching the smallest reminder possible into her calendar. Forget her graffiti comment. It's starting to look more like a _collage_. Taking Zola to ballet practice _and_ the student-parent mixer, visiting Meredith, babyproofing the sisterhouse with Alex and Link, having dinner with Richard _and_ being offered to host a big presentation at the University of Washington School of Medicine for the rechargeable heart trials. On _top_ of her work with Jade and whatever surgeries or check-ups she could squeeze in. It was just another average month, right? Just another average month.

"...I need coffee." Maggie whispers, double-checking the alarm for tomorrow morning before shoving her cell back into her pocket.

At the very least, Jade's updates have been smooth as butter. The girl's caught on to the pattern of scanning, testing and break time pretty quickly (unsurprising, considering her rigorous extracurriculars). While she's not always _thrilled_ about having to do another repetition (or three) to provide a clearer reading, she's pretty cooperative as long as there's a promise of fun at the end. Bonding with her in the videogame room has been priceless (and a much-needed detox). Maggie is ninety-nine percent sure Jade would've hated her more if not for Mario Kart Racing.

Crossreferencing with BPM Plus has been a non-stop deluge of feedback, the only thing she looks forward to more than the latest medical journal. Adair is consistently confident with her research, often sending more encouragement than criticism. At this rate she'll have the rechargeable heart ready to go within a _month_. Considering Jade's already overdue on a _any_ new heart transplant, it couldn't be better timing. The second this heart was in her body, she will finally be put on a track toward a life without arrhythmias, attacks and the horrible shadow of uncertainty hanging over every soccer match.

It was just...having enough damn _time_.

The girl's already flatlined once (something she doesn't want to think about for as long as she lives, has to think about because that's her job-). Oh, the irony of it all. She has to speed up tests to get more information, _but_ the more stress put on Jade's weak heart, the shorter the deadline for the implant grows. Things are smooth, and yet, it's all she can do to hope they'll outpace an extra surgery. Maybe it's not the end of the world if they have to delay the miracle, but she was never very good at the whole 'failure' thing.

Helm and Schmitt shuffle down the hall with their noses in a shared tablet, though not so focused they forget to give her an enthusiastic wave. Just a friendly reminder of _all_ she has to fail if she doesn't pull this off. Maggie waves back, then marches back into the patient room.

"All right, Jade." She puts on her brightest smile. "Ready for another round?"

By the sounds of it, she's playing another round of Candy Crush. Jade sighs sharply through her nose, hitting pause on the game and slinking to her feet.

"...'Kay."

Jade gives her one-word answers and doesn't make eye contact, even when doing her favorite handstands and cartwheels. It's not the _most_ fun they've had doing exercises and research, but if success was only based on the good days, nobody would've innovated squat.

The second she gets home she starts a cozy fire, brews some hot chocolate and whips out sticky notes to jot down potential speech ideas, to her supportive audience of Amelia, Link and Zola (the latter of whom is curled up in a ball beneath a blanket, fast asleep).

"I'm Dr. Margaret Pierce, the, uh...innovator for the rechargeable heart keychains you're probably holding."

A part of her wants to channel Catherine and that amazingly sharp-yet-flowery way she had of putting everything. That woman could turn buying a can of tuna into a speech worthy of an award's ceremony. It might be worth texting her for a few pointers, but she's also been sending her constant inquiries into Jackson's health. Very specific questions, too, enough to clue her in that conversations should be kept to a minimum, because Catherine was _very_ good at changing the subject to her favor.

Scratch that, then. She considers trying on Meredith's affects. Her frank-yet-chill approach. She already had the lisp down, for one. It depresses her immediately, only serving to remind her of the empty space on the couch where she should be.

"Hearts are the centerpiece, which is only fitting to have you all here, the center of what makes us _truly_...oh, I don't know." Maggie sighs, flopping her arms out of their TED Talk pose. "I want to...inspire the crowd, but not seem like I'm trying way too hard?" She looks down at her notes again. "...I always hated class presentations."

"You give speeches to patients all the time. It's not all that different." Amelia notes with a scowl. She's looked that way all day due to bloating, so it's nothing personal. ...She hopes. She put extra marshmallows in her mug to be on the safe side.

"Yeah, but that's rarely more than seven or eight people. This is a whole crowd that's probably been fed a bunch of fluff about me on the news. Bloating my...my image into this huge, towering, Beyonce-type thing. That's not me. I screw things up sometimes." She crumples up a note, another stupid ballpoint drawing of a heart she did in the kitchen- "A _lot_ of times."

Amelia's scowl softens. Zola mumbles something into her folded arms (still asleep). Link gives a sympathetic smile over his mug of cocoa.

"Just be yourself, Maggie. You're good at that."

It's such stunning wisdom she crumples all her notes and flings them into the fire. One of them floats back out and catches on the rug, forcing her to hastily stomp at it before it catches. Hopefully it's not a metaphor of what's to come.

***

_I_ _haven't kept one of these in so long. Every time I tried to keep journals in the past it just turned into another textbook. Kind of wonder if I should bury this one in the ground when I'm finished and dig it back out in twenty years. Future me might have some really good opinions on past me._

***

She really should've known better than to get her hopes up. Not with her luck.

"Damn it. Damn it, _no_."

She reviews the chart three times. Then five times. She takes a few minutes to walk back and forth in the hallway to refresh her mind, breathe new air and drink some water. When she returns the truth has only gotten uglier: there's a complication with the rechargeable heart.

"You can do this, Maggie." She whispers to her shaking hands, unreliable as they were at Pac North with her cousin strewn out on the table and no longer cracking jokes- "You can _do_ this. It's never been done before, but you can do this."

Charging the heart through the skin was already a complicated endeavor. The human body is a highly complicated network already _brimming_ with delicate electrical charges, from the synapses firing in the brain to the pricks of feeling in the fingertips. Jade was a pretty healthy girl all around, but the heart she's operating on is on its _last_ legs. A constant workaround she's had to supplement with informed conjecture. At first the complication seems to be an issue with the weak muscle absorbing the charge...until she does a little math and came up with a higher number. Again and again she does her calculations, silently begging for a better outcome.

It doesn't come. Genius brains were one things. Miracles, it seems, were another. Maggie calls the parents down for a surprise meeting, because the only thing worse than a flatlining daughter was a promise she couldn't keep.

"So. To put it simply, Jade is showing a few complications with the 'practice charge', which tests her ability to adapt to electrical pulses." Maggie sorts the words out in her head for a moment, then takes in a deep breath. "Basically, our hypothetical readings haven't been reaching full power. Not...even _close_ , to be honest. The fact her heart was already deteriorating is making it hard to get a more accurate reading on the potential her body has for the rest of the electricity. The only way to do that would be to...get a better heart off the current donor list."

Jason runs a hand over his hair. He's gone through five fresh shaves since they've met. He's not using both hands, at least, but he's looking far too close to needing to lie down for her liking.

"I also wonder if her body has been weakened by multiple heart surgeries, which is something else I can analyze, but will also take time..." She continues, only to trail off at the man's sharp gaze.

"But...she doesn't have time to wait." He mumbles, slowly. "She...needs that rechargeable heart as soon as _possible_."

Brett is calmer, but only barely. His glasses have slid down his nose, head on a permanent tilt for better news, and he doesn't push them back up.

"Right. She's already gone through two surgeries. That's a lot of stress on a child. That's what our previous doctors told us, about the, uh...increased possibility of clots, the stress on the body, kidney failure and things like that..."

Maggie puts on her most sympathetic smile, something she hopes looks more encouraging than condescending. Oh, how did Jackson _do_ it? She used to find his pleasant, plastic work face a little corny. Right now it's the one ingredient she needs most.

"Yes. Exactly. Those are all possible risks and hers are higher than most. She'll need a new heart transfer soon, but it just...might be sooner than the actual rechargeable heart can go in, which may mean two whole transfers overall." She can't do it. Her face falls into gentle sympathy, honest as she has to be. "I'm _so_ sorry. I wish I could speed this up. I just don't want to miss anything vital and put in the rechargeable heart without knowing all the facts. Anything that could compromise the success of this surgery."

Both men are silent. Brett reaches for his husband's shoulder, tentatively. When Jason just shakes his head, running another hand over his hair, he starts to rub his back.

"...We understand." He opens his mouth, then shuts it, too quickly. She doesn't need to read minds to know she almost got hit with something painful. "We...we understand. Can we have a moment alone, please?"

Maggie tells them it's no problem and leaves to go check on Jade, curled on the bed with a magazine. She handles it worse than both of them combined.

" _I don't want to do an extra surgery_."

Maggie holds up a hand, ready to tell her that she's going to do her absolute _best_ to make sure it doesn't happen, that she's got one of the best brains in the country and some of the most incredible, hard-working surgeons on her side-

"I have a soccer competition in two months. Then I have the pole-vaulting try-outs." Jade stands up and rushes up to her, fists clenched. For the first time since she met her in September she looks desperate. Lost. "I'll be fine. If my chest hurts I'll stop. I _promise_."

"That's...not how it works, Jade. If your chest is hurting, especially during something as strenuous as soccer or pole-vaulting? After your history with _surgery?_ That's already a sign you could be in serious danger."

"But I _hate_ being stuck in bed all the time. I had to stay at the other hospitals for _months_. I pretty much know everyone here, too. I don't even know my own school this well." Jade looks around the room with a dawning look of horror. "What if I'm here forever? What if I have to be half-machine like that old lady downstairs?"

Oh. She's talking about Sharon, the elderly woman on a ventilator after on-and-off battles with pneumonia. Whoever has been letting her roam around is going to need a _swift_ talking to (if she didn't just sneak out behind her back).

"Jade, I wish I could let you run around and do what you do best. If I do, though, you'll speed up the ticking clock on your heart and make it tougher for me to give you this rechargeable one. The heart to end all hearts."

Jade stares at her with glittering, furious brown eyes. She opens her mouth to rebuke, then shakes her head and slumps on the edge of the bed.

"...My _other_ doctors would've let me."

Because they didn't know what the _hell_ they were doing. Because they didn't care all that much about a superstar black girl outdoing everyone more easily than breathing. They might just be the reason why this whole endeavor is even harder than it should be. Maggie's grip on her tablet pad shakes.

"Jade...we need to make sure you're as relaxed as possible. Why don't we go relax for a little-"

"I don't want to play in your stupid room." She sniffs and scrubs a hand under her nose. "I want to see my dads."

Maggie slowly nods.

"...Of course."

***

_I don't know what I was expecting to happen. I thought maybe it'd be easier. I have amazing people in my life. The biggest family I could ever dream of, the greatest minds to challenge and inspire me. Yet I feel alone, more so than I ever have, and every day it feels like my little island grows smaller._

***

The steady spiral of inevitable failure is so dark and twisty that visiting a literal _jail_ doesn't have the sting it used to.

If Meredith is starting to feel the wear and tear of being locked in a cell for hours on end, she doesn't show it. She tells her she likes her pink sweater, that it matches the grey walls perfectly. Maggie tells her she's always been one for color theory. They both know the drill at this point. Still. She wrote down notes for conversation topics beforehand. Just in case.

"I keep trying to call them and they _never_ pick up. I think they can smell me at this point." Maggie rubs her forehead. "I brought it up to Richard and he gave me this funny look. Probably thinks I'm crazy for trying to reach out to people who probably view me as a harbinger of death. Almost-death."

"Well, that's their issue, not yours. They didn't _have_ to invite a second loss into the family, but if that's the route they want to go, then screw them." Meredith says, simply, and it's such a basic gesture of support it brings tears to her eyes.

Maggie presses her palm to the glass. ...She was right. Meredith really _could_ make anything sound palatable. Even her own mounting failure, delayed just long enough to fool everyone around her. She hastily checks her notes. Let's see. They've talked about the food (nothing like the amazing stews Jackson is eating over at the ward, still probably better than Grey-Sloan's slop). They've caught up on rechargeable heart stuff. Now for the roughest of the bunch.

"...Zola's doing great." Maggie says, smiling. "She _loved_ the first ballet meeting. It was mostly talking, they only did a short practice dance, but I can tell she's going to have a lot of fun."

Now she sees some of that wear and tear. Meredith curls her finger in the phone cord, looking off into the corner.

"...Yeah. She's going to do great."

They talk about possible name suggestions for Amelia's baby (mutually agreeing that Spencer is a bully magnet). They talk about the latest episode of Hoarders (which she's been able to catch, not as good as the previous season). Then it's time to go. Farewells and well-wishings, forcefully casual to keep the sheer awfulness just a few inches away. Day in, day out, she always seemed to be visiting people from afar, locked up for their own good for one reason or another. Maggie winds down the day with Zola over her homework and the on-boarding for the ballet program, mostly stretching exercises and a few blurbs about famous ballets. She's thrilled about the proceedings, but as is the wont of a child, her mind is already zipping off somewhere else.

"Let's share our journals. Mine's just about filled up." Zola tugs out hers, pink and coated in stickers. "I drew a little, too."

"Filled up already?" Maggie blinks. "That's a _lot_ of paper."

"I have a lot of thoughts."

One-by-one they document the last few weeks, a light patter of autumn rain filling in the thoughtful gaps in their conversation. Zola takes her columns of math equations, vulnerable rambles and the occasional manic scribble of deteriorated hearts in stride; she even does her best to figure out a little calculus game (done to pass the time in-between check-ups), which already gets her a _massive_ brownie point. The girl's certainly has a lot of drawings, mainly fairies and flowers with the occasional portrait of a friend. There are also a lot of pages about her mother. Then another. Then another.

Maggie puts an arm around the girl's shoulders and pretends not to notice her surreptitious attempts at wiping at her eyes, observing the swirly pencil doodle of Meredith in what looks to be her lab coat.

"Guess we both miss Mom, huh?" Zola says, tracing a finger over her work. Maggie kisses the top of her head, then lays her cheek on her curls.

"...Yeah."

"Oh. What's a time capsule?" She asks, squinting. Maggie winks.

"Here. Let me show you one of my secret weapons." She pulls out her phone and turns on her phone. " _Videogames_."

It's the perfect choice to wind down the day with. In just an hour Zola is lulled into sleepymode on the right side of the bed, herself into willing-to-lay-down-mode half-sitting up against the headrest. Maggie thinks vaguely she forgot to put her headwrap on, but the pull of rest is far too strong, and what the rest promises.

_...he tells her dancing among the stars is easy._

_Jackson was good at making things look easy. Forever the precision of a plastic surgery master (a term he'd also slip casually out of the side of his mouth like a mention of the weather). It still feels like a bit much, to see a galaxy beneath her toes and the stretch of the cosmos framing the shoulders of his suit. Jackson doesn't dance like he did at his ex-wife's wedding, nor Bailey's. He dances like gravity is a theory and love is free, taking her hands and pulling her into the lights._

_He tells her he doesn't want to miss a thing._

_She's only wearing a ray of light, sheer enough to promise, and he's overdressed. Maggie peels back the lapels of his suit. From grey to blue. Blue to red. Red to green. The flowery layers catch on the wind, flare out to fill the space with silk, the finest money could buy. She reaches up and takes his face in both hands to kiss him properly, and that's the trick. That's what he needed. Everything sheds off them both, puddles at their feet into silky water, and they're slivers of brown in a rainbow sea._

_He tells her he fell in love._

_He smells not like espresso, but bedsheets. He smells not like cologne, but sweat and tears. She doesn't want magical. She wants the tremble of his pulse against her lips, deep in the dark where even the lights are too shy to waltz._

***

_Something's gotta give._

***

What better way to start off the month of Christmas than with a comedy of errors? Maggie has never believed in God, but if anything could make her attribute spite to the incalculable construct of the universe, it'd be this Saturday afternoon.

Bailey has come down with a cold and has to stay home, a tiny bundle of misery only rivaled by Amelia's _spectacular_ back pain. The car engine also makes very uncomfortable sounds whenever she turns on the engine, which could be a basic issue or a cat that crawled under the hood (and she silently begs for it not to be the latter). Only the weather is behaving, bright and sunny, though she doesn't expect _that_ to last very long. It's another day, which means another way for things to go wrong, even on a quick trip to the grocery store for heating pads.

Her pessimism is so thick that when she goes through her usual round of calling the Webber family and getting the answering machine, her brain shuts off when a voice _responds_.

" _What do you **want?**_ " Chris asks, a haze of feedback in the background suggesting a sport's game is on. Maggie nearly drops the phone.

"H-Hey! Hey. Uh, I just...I wanted to ask how...how you're all doing."

So much for all her meticulously written segues. The pause over the line is so long she could probably outrun the length of the Lord Of The Rings trilogy's uncut edition.

" _...You're her doctor. Can't you call and get updates instead of blowing up our phone like a telemarketer?_ "

Oh, she has updates. Pages worth. _Books_ worth. Updates on still-continuing brain activity, healthy liver and kidney function. So many ballpoint pen studies of hearts in various stages of deterioration she's honestly lost count, and counting was her _thing_. She was so close to learning what she needed to know to stop biatrial myxoma in its cancerous tracks. So close she could taste it on the tip of her _tongue_ , with the only thing standing in-between her and spending more time her current project. A project that could have the _answer_.

" _Saw in the news you got a new heart project for your big...research thing?_ " He says, right on cue. Maggie's breath catches in her throat. Maybe she should go back inside and grab her notes.

"A-Almost. Almost. It's a work-in-progress. I have a patient who's signed up for the final stage in the clinical trial and we're just figuring out a speed bump on the rechargeable part-" She huffs out a shaky laugh. "It's tough going, but we're making _great_ progress-"

" _Of course you are_." Chris's dismissive tone is worse than if he'd doubted her outright. " _You calling to tell me that could help Sabi, or...?_ "

"N-No. No, I...I don't know if I could..." Maggie pinches her brow. "Well, that's not true. Not yet. I just wanted to...check in and-"

" _Best of luck with your project._ "

Then he hangs up, a _beep_ that rings hollow in the cold afternoon, and she's alone again. Maggie leans against her car door and runs hands down her face.

Maybe she should finally call her father and stop making excuses why she couldn't communicate with him after the funeral. Maybe she should call Alex, who was there and didn't blame her, not for a second, even though her mistake fell on _his_ head, too. There are a lot of people she could call that actually give a _crap_ about her, yet she went for this. Maggie peers through her fingers to the front door of the house. The breakdown needs to happen somewhere quiet. Preferably over more wine and research (and a cup of spiked 'nog).

Jackson's words ring in her mind, as cold and sharp as the winter air on her skin.

" _God, you always turn tail and run. Always_."

...No. Maggie gets in the car, minds her scarf, then snaps the door shut. She's been weighing and measuring down to the last percentage. She's not running away. Not _this_ time.

***

The city is hitting that crunchy middleground. All the leaves haven't fallen, but winter isn't in full swing, either. Kind of like when her period's right around the corner and the cramps decide to get a headstart. The ward's grounds are no different, twinkling prettily beneath a cloudy sky and nearly empty, save for a lone, old jogger working his way up the uppermost slope.

Maggie parks in the guest spot, then steps out and takes in a deep breath. It's all been another tsunami to the head.

She's been studying as much as she can on mental illness. Last night she lulled herself to sleep with medical journals on illnesses dating back decades. Hallucinations and triggers, depression and PTSD, various causes, mainstream media stereotypes. Her biggest sign to turn back around and try again, though, wasn't a dramatic swan dive into the field of psychology. It was...smaller, and somehow, far more startling. Her wine and research session had kept getting interrupted. Not with outside distractions or the sudden lurches of grief that hit her during slow periods, but...cozier thoughts. Of beef stew and quiet talks away far from the world.

All morning (week, rather) she's planned out how she's going to walk through the front doors of Western Roth and confront him. It doesn't have to be anything... _huge_. It shouldn't be, actually. She can just say she's sorry and go from there. Sorry for throwing his symptoms in his face, sorry for running when she should've stood firm. She can...she can _try_ to listen to him apologize. Try to crawl over the jagged spikes of the pain, the sleepless nights and humiliating shivers and angry stares across the room. It's not going to be easy. It's going to be the hardest thing in the world, she thinks.

Maggie opens her phone mirror to adjust her knitted scarf, fluffing her hair up over the collar of her peacoat in what she _hopes_ is a look more casual than uptown. Hopefully they've got some extra stew today.

Then her hope that crashes to the floor like cheap ceramic when she walks into the lobby. Jackson is huddled on one of the chairs off in the far corner, just barely out of sight. The low dip of his head raises her hackles with horrible swiftness. There are three staff members sitting and standing around him, murmuring far too low for her to catch. She can hear him just fine, though.

"Get off, get off, _get off-_ "

"It's okay. You're okay. Listen to my voice. It's not real, Jackson. It's not real."

"Fuck that, it _hurts_ , just let _go-_ "

...It's happening again. Maggie starts to walk forward, then lurches back when an arm juts before her. It's one of the on-site nurses, a middle-aged woman in a track suit and flanked by what looks like her patients for the day.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, have you signed in?" She asks, gesturing to the desk over by the door. Jackson is a gravity. As much as she tries, Maggie can't tear her eyes off him.

"Uh, no, I was going to...I just saw..."

The side of his jaw is rubbed _raw_ and starting to bleed a little, with what looks like constant, determined scratching. She doesn't need to see his hands to know he did it to himself. She shouldn't look. She does, anyway. Thinks, vaguely, how the stains look like whiteboard marker. The man grits his jaw and grinds his teeth so hard it's audible despite the distance. All the patients in the room, from the joggers to the pair playing games in the corner, keep their eyes averted. Politely pretending they're not seeing their resident Avery losing his shit in public, again.

"...Don't worry. He's okay." Her smile is so kind it hurts. "He's in very good hands."

Jackson hisses something under his breath and tries to jerk away. The nurse holds firm on his wrists, still trying to soothe him, but he just looks more frustrated, more exhausted, more scared. Maybe scared enough to throw something if he breaks free. Not again. Not _again_. Maggie shakes her head, tries to push the arm down so she can get through and whisper some sense into him. The nurse is smaller than her by a full head, but it feels like trying to push a vending machine.

"Just let me talk to him. _Please_." She tries. This gets her a firm frown.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?"

"I'm Maggie Pierce. I'm a doctor."

"But who are you to _him?_ Does he know you?"

Maggie's breath stutters.

"I'm-"

_-his ex-girlfriend._

"He's..."

_...someone I hate who I used to love and someone I love and used to hate._

"I..."

_...don't know what to do._

Jackson is trying to pull away again, desperately bracing his feet on the floor and _twisting_ his shoulders. When the nurse doesn't budge he starts...rubbing his cheek against his shoulder like a feral _cat_ , a last-ditch attempt to scratch away at whatever he _thinks_ he's feeling. When that does nothing, just smearing a mess onto his grey hoodie, he burrows his face into the crook of his arm and _screams_. She's only heard him scream once, back in the hyperbaric chamber, and that surreal moment had still been muffled behind glass. Just far enough to almost feel like a bad dream.

One of the male nurses rubs his back, slowly, ignoring how Jackson tries to hunch away from the touch. Not crying, clearly needing to, and if he couldn't even find it in him to cry _here_...what could _she_ do? Maggie's hand shakes over her mouth. Recovery shouldn't sound like this. Impotent and strained to shaking, still snuffed out by soft-yet-firm whispers that he's not in danger. That he's safe. That he's okay. Except he's not.

He's _not_.

"...Ma'am?"

"-I'll j-just go. I'm sorry."

Maggie's hands are still warm from the building when she stumbles back outside, though she can't feel a thing. She drops her phone twice trying to punch in a number. Outright begs the call to go through and nearly loses it, then and there, when Amelia picks up.

" _I can't **do** this day_."

" _What do you mean? Are you okay, do you need me to pick you up-_ " She lets out a strained huff. " _Or Link, rather, I can't do shit in the final stretch._ "

"No, no, it's not that. I just...oh, I just...everyone's behind glass. Meredith is, Jackson is, Sabi is. Everyone. I can see them so clearly, but they're all a million miles away, and I can't reach them no matter what I do. I can't. I _can't_."

Maggie covers her mouth and tries to breathe through the burn, scouring through her lungs with each new, shaky, powerless breath.

" _Maggie? Are you still there?_ "

"Mm-hm."

" _Okay. Instead of a maybe-presentation practice we can have a sit-down and talk it out. Chip away at that stress like we're in high school. Can't dance it out because I'm a Macy's Day parade float, but. Until then, talk to me._ "

It's a powerless spew, tumbling out of her before she can so much as arrange the words into something sensible.

She tells her everything she saw (and a tiny, tiny part of her apologizes to Jackson for it, because this isn't something he'll want anybody to know about-). She talks about how she thought it would've been easier a third time around, but it's actually harder, it's _so much harder_. It's tempting to go into Jade's parents and how the whole family has gone from believing in her to nearly dreading the sight of her, but she doesn't. Amelia already has enough to deal with without carrying the _entire_ weight of her world.

" _...Wow_." Amelia lets out a long, long sigh. " _That's...okay. Not like, it's **okay** , just...damn_."

"I snapped at him. I snapped at him, last time I visited, told him we were through a-and that he clearly never cared all that much to begin with and-" Maggie tugs her up collar when a breeze catches, sharp and sudden. "He was going through all this and I just raked him over the _coals_ for it. I made a horrible joke about trees. I blamed him for throwing up his lunch and-"

" _No. No, that's not it at all. Maggie, listen to me. Remember what we talked about? Mental illness isn't a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It's not a license to just...do whatever the hell. It's a reason. Not an excuse_." She pauses. " _...Maggie? Repeat after me. It's a reason, not an excuse_."

"I-It's a reason. Not an excuse."

" _He treated you like crap. He dumped you out of the blue over a fucking camping trip, then rebounded overnight and acted like you were some Tinder date that caught feelings. He's honestly lucky I've gone to therapy myself and learned mauling people with my bare hands isn't the answer_." Amelia sighs brusquely. " _Aaand...as much as it pains me to admit...that sick brain must've been a factor in all that stupid shit. Passive-aggressive Instagram posts are a side-effect of PTSD, who knew_."

Maggie coughs out a wet laugh. She twists fingers around the hem of her coat.

"He seemed...pretty level when he shared his big 'letting go' metaphor." She whispers. "He said _she_ was fun. That _we_ couldn't be fixed."

" _Yeah. I'm sure all that drivel made perfect sense in his head. Look. If he means it, that he really is sorry and not just saying it to get back into your pants, he'll stay there until he gets his bad brain properly sorted out. He'll show you he regrets what he did, that he loves you_."

"Okay."

" _And if he doesn't, then fuck him_."

"O-Okay."

" _Don't hold it in_."

Maggie leans into her knees and, like opening up a window on a stuffy summer day, finally lets out the first sob.

Her mind spits out images of before in-between the hiccups, of Jackson sitting and smiling brightly over a plate of greens at a dinner party, gaze perfectly split between her mother and her (more often drifting to her, always trying to disguise it as a curious sweep across the table). Amelia had saved her a seat next to him. Winked at her before getting swept up into a joke Arizona was telling. Sometimes she _hates_ her powerful imagination. It makes the memories too perfect and sunny. Then again, she's got a genetic predisposition for Alzheimer's, so maybe that's one of the worst things she could get frustrated at, for one of the worst _reasons_ , to boot.

What were the point of happy memories if she didn't even want to look back on them?

She's seen so many Jacksons these past few months. A ghost in the parking lot. A lost boy in front of his apartment complex. The man she fell in _love_ with over a bowl of soup. Oh, he could be with her right _now_. Not begging for the chance to claw at his face, but murmuring about fish grafts with his head in her lap, drawing out a draft by tracing a dangerous finger against her thigh. Even if she ran back into that field of madness, he wouldn't be waiting for her. Not after the way she yelled at him. Not after he looked at her like that with an envelope in his hands, betrayal and grief and solemn acceptance knotted into scar tissue.

So many Jacksons, when she'd just wanted the _one_. The thought hits her hard, almost hard enough to snap her out of her hysterics.

"...What if he does it _again?_ What if he tells me to leave, _again_ , looks at me like...like he's disgusted and barely recognizes me..." Maggie wipes at her wet nose with her scarf. "I couldn't do that again, Amelia. Just seeing him now, freaking out again, I was so scared, I...I barely recognize him. I don't know. I don't know."

" _Yeah. That's what you sign up for when loving someone mentally ill, unfortunately, and there's already a mountain of risk when getting into a relationship. Cheating. Drifting apart. Death. Bad brain is just one more on the shit pile._ " She stops talking for a bit. Long enough to sound like she's hung up. Then- " _...Recovery isn't pretty, Maggie. It really isn't. I did some pretty fucked up shit while trying to get sober. I'm not proud of it. I mean, I had to start somewhere, but I'm not...it was messy, is what I'm saying. It was messy with me, it was messy with Brittney_."

"You've been doing great, Amelia. I'm so proud of you."

" _I know you are. That means everything to me. Just remember, Maggie, that mental illness isn't...separate from a person. It's a part of them. An ugly, tiring, frustrating part, sure, but still part of them. If you try to pretend you're viewing different people during a bad spell, you're just dividing without conquering. Slicing someone up and leaving them open on the table_."

Maggie nods miserably, then remembers to vocalize and grunts a pathetic little sound. She buries her face into the dry part of her scarf. Nodding, and nodding, and nodding.

"You're right. I'm...I'm sorry. It's...I've...I've never felt so useless."

" _I know._ "

Maggie curls a little into her chest, the sensation there just like that day when he dropped her and what they had. Fresh and wretched.

"...I just miss him so _much_."

Amelia's voice softens.

" _I know_."

Then there's nothing else to say. Nothing else at all, because she's here and he's there and that's as close as she can get. It's a few wet, aching minutes she has sitting on the curb, wanting nothing more than to sink into the concrete and disappear. This must've been what Alex went through when Jo sent herself off. Maybe what Ben had been so concerned about when Bailey took that long medical leave after the glove incident (that poor woman must still be blaming herself). She'd seen the after-effect on Alex so acutely, how he... _dimmed_...but she never could've _imagined._ A shadow spills over her, sapping the little warmth left in the afternoon. _Jackson_. He can't be ready yet. _She's_ not ready! Maggie desperately mops off her eyes and wet nose, then looks up.

It's Hina. Clutching onto a cardigan and holding out a box of tissues.

"Hey." She tilts her head, immaculate hair hardly shifting. "Are you okay?"

"Um. K-Kind of." Maggie tugs out a few and blows messily into the pile. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so loud. I'm just talking to my sister about...things."

"You're in front of a psychiatric ward. You're _definitely_ allowed to cry here." Her smile is wry, yet gentle. "I'm happy to hear that. Not everyone here has a support system." She sets the box next to her before walking back inside. "We have tomato dill soup today. Help yourself to some."

"Thank you."

It's tempting. There's a slightly more pressing matter to attend to, though. Maggie waits until she's out of sight, then yanks out her sparkly purple journal and flips to the nearest blank page. It's so cold she can barely feel her hands, but she pulls out a pen and starts writing down the biggest note she's taken all month. Not equations or dream musings, but everything she's been too cowardly to say. Amelia grumbles about nausea over the line, which she mutters back just to let her know she hasn't disconnected, hand flying across the page and carving out the necessary words one slice and suction at a time.

She doesn't imagine Jackson in his lab coat, freshly shaven and smiling through the fog. She imagines him as he is, scraped and sodden, and writes to _him_.

" _...Uh, Maggie?_ "

"Sorry. I'm almost done. I'm writing this...letter. I know it's still kind of roundabout, I just don't think now's a good time to talk to him about all this, and Zola's been helping me with the whole 'honesty of the page' and stuff-"

" _I think my water broke_."

Maggie looks up.

"...Oh."

Cloud nine's returned, but she's only got one leg on the seat. Maggie stumbles to her feet and rushes to the front doors...only to double _right_ back around when she remembers she left her purse on the curb. By the time she reaches the front desk she's already a sweaty mess. Jackson isn't in the lobby anymore, but she didn't expect him to be. She gives them the letter and wishes them well, then beelines to her car. The wind isn't blowing anymore, the sun to filtering through and warm the back of her neck.

There's a new member to the cloud seven hours and thirty-five minutes later later. Pink, six pounds and five ounces and squalling even harder than she'd been at the front steps of Western Roth.

" _...Hey, there._ " She's so tired her tongue feels like it belongs to another person, but there are some things that are literally impossible to fail at. " _It's very nice to meet you._ "

A crap day with a showstopping ending. Just the supernatural luck of Seattle's one and only Margaret 'Maggie' Pierce. While sitting down in Amelia's room and munching on chips with an (exhausted, elated, _glowing_ ) Link she calls Adair. Tells him she'll host the rechargeable heart presentation in January.

"Can I get one of those heart keychains?" He asks, smiling through the bags under his eyes. Maggie squeezes his shoulder.

"I'll _literally_ shower them over everyone at the baby shower."

He offers to go grab her some grub from the vending machine. She sweetly refuses, telling him to plunk his new father self down and beelining down the hall with spare change in one hand. One of the newest interns stops her in the hallway and asks for her autograph. Maggie signs their notebook with a Sharpie, then shares her Doritos as they walk back to the room.

Tomorrow, she's running _forward_.

* * *

_Nobody looks forward to the pour of antiseptic and nobody looks forward to the fall of their personal towers. It can't be avoided, though._

_Honestly...putting off the breaking means putting off the healing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that first dream Maggie had was abso- _friggen_ -lutely a shout-out to Detroit: Become Human, thanks for asking!
> 
> This chapter was a bit of a doozy to write. A lot of sub-plots and dream sequences and important revelations to juggle. Good challenge, all around, and here's hoping it's not too convoluted. Again, I thought of waiting an extra day or two to post this, but this isn't a series I want to go into with extra polish on the mind. Just...heaps and _heaps_ of stream-of-consciousness sincerity, little errors be damned. for those craving some more maggie and jackson interacting, hold onto your butts, these upcoming chapters will be getting juicy in every sense of the word
> 
> That " _Just be yourself. You're good at that_." line was actually something said to me by a college acquaintance several years ago. It's one of the kindest and most sincere things anyone's ever said to me. I've never forgotten it.


	7. when the wind

**Song Inspiration:** "(It Was) September" by Superior Elevation

*

_see, all my friends, they say I'm living on a dream_

_but they just don't know to me how much it means_

_it was september_

_that's when she went away_

* * *

_We are born crying for help._

_The first breath we take is a hardwired request for assistance. To be cleaned, to be swaddled, to be fed. As we grow older this instinctual urge is tamped out of some of us. Enhanced in others. To need help is a luxury not everyone is allowed to have, for reasons of class or race or disability. Learning how to reacquaint with this base instinct can take years of hard work, if it's rediscovered at all._

_Just like any other skill, there's a better and worse way to do it._

* * *

"Your turn, Darla."

Huh. Wherever her passion for 'kicking his green ass' went, it's not in the building.

"...Darla?"

The woman is staring off into space, still fiddling with her black chip. She might be getting bored. Maybe going through another swing. It's become a little easier to figure out her moods over the weeks. Her pattern was predictable by virtue of contrasting his own; Darla went to bed earlier than most, yet was _somehow_ a late riser. To contrast, his new napping schedule was (embarrassingly) frequent, yet no matter how many excess hours he logged in, he only felt alive in the morning. Better with sleep, better with people, better at poker: the only thing she _wasn't_ better at was, apparently, this particular checkers match.

Jackson reaches over and taps a red checker in front of her. She blinks owlishly at him.

"Hey." He tries again, putting on a half-smile. "You're zoning out on me."

More than that, really. The past few days have been rough on her. She had a rather vocal meltdown on the second floor just last night (one he could hear through his room's ceiling). She hasn't had any family visit, either, which could explain the strange behavior; the ward has been a steady buzz of activity the second December flipped the calendar and he'd be lying if he said it hasn't been rough on him, too. Jackson watches patiently as Darla quietly reaches beneath the table and pulls out her wispy shawl, winding it around her shoulders, then up and over her cropped hair.

It's not thick enough to do much, which surprises him all the more when she scrapes her pieces off the board and says:

"...Let's go on a walk. Snow's too pretty to be ignored."

"You sure?"

"I was jus' thinkin', don't fret yourself none."

Make that huh times two. She was doing _this_ more often, too. Bouncing between whims like Harriet on an average day. Was it her feeling more comfortable around him? That theory _immediately_ doesn't hold water, since she acted like his best friend within two hours of knowing him. It could just be the dementia talking. Well, it's always a good time for a stroll, as far as he's concerned. Jackson shrugs and tugs on his black hoodie, running a hand over his thick(er) hair. It might need a trim soon.

"Check those shoes, son." She reminds. "Watch that you don't slip."

Jackson snorts and obediently leans down to double-tie his shoelaces, watching the slivers on his hand twitch in the lobby light. The scars are silvering now. It'll still be a while until they fade.

"You... _do_ know I'm a grown man, right?" He says, wryly, standing and holding out his elbow for her balance.

"No such thing as too grown for good advice."

Darla gives his arm an affection pat before taking his elbow offer and walking to the front desk for the sign-out sheet.

"Be back in a half hour, you two." Alicia says over her glasses, eyebrows raised with the rest of her sentiment. "It's cold as _hell_."

Colder than even that. The second he walks outside his eyebrows immediately freeze. His top ten most hated sensations _ever_. Jackson rubs at his browline, otherwise appreciating the sting of the crisp winter air on his face. The grounds are _glorious_ beneath all the fresh snow, just a few brick chimneys shy of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Darla seems entirely indifferent to the good _and_ bad, asking about him as they make their way up the east pathway. He's not sure what troubles him more. The fact she's apparently impervious to the leftover cold snap or the fact she hasn't once given a crap about his family name or money.

" _Ah!_ See, see." She crows when he slips on a slippery patch of sidewalk and nearly headbutts a snowdrift. "Those sneakers ain't for weather like this."

Jackson keeps a firm grip on her elbow as he leads her up the hill. She asks about his friends, about his mood, about his life. It's like a session with Barnes, except with 90% less notetaking and 90% more ribbing.

"Oh, oh, what is it do you do again? It's been a while." She hedges as he eases her carefully around a puddle.

"I'm a... _was_...a plastic surgeon."

"Ah, that's so nice. Never thought you'd be the type, all huddled away from the world like you are. Go from nice to grumpy in a _pop_. Your bedside manner must put Oscar The Grouch to shame."

Jackson snorts. Like dusting off an old knick-knack he shares more of memories of Grey-Sloan (not worrying if he repeats, since she likely won't recall). He goes for the intense or strange ones rather than the fond, because the latter aches too much. It's...interesting the sensations he gets, now, when indulging in the memory of a surgery. That slow-yet-bracing race against a ticking clock, a tool in one hand and an organ in the other. It still feels good, but...it's muffled. A touch to the hand from a loved one that hasn't visited in a while, where all the distance has to be reconfigured with the new information in-between.

It bothers him, actually. So much so he misses Darla's next question when they pass by the stone water fountain, draped in frost so thick it could be confused for a sugar glaze.

"Hm?" Jackson grunts, taking a few sips. It's ice cold and perfect. "...Sorry. Guess it's my turn to zone out."

"I _said_..." She huffs, giving his arm a light slap. "...when'd you get so smart, Davey?"

Jackson slowly straightens back up. He wipes a stray bead off his beard with the back of his hand.

"...I'm not Davey."

Darla's face falls. She starts to wring her hands together, too slowly to suggest she's trying to twist away the cold.

"...Come now. Don't be like that." Her rheumy eyes start to glitter. "I _said_ I was sorry, again and again. Can't you let bygones be bygones?"

...Oh, no.

"I..." Jackson starts, then breathes out slowly through his nose. He used to deal with situations just like this. This is nothing new. "I'm Jackson. _Jack_. Remember? We play checkers, sometimes poker..."

"You don't play checkers." She shakes her head, mouth pursed tight. "You don't play any games, because you never visit."

"...Um." Jackson runs a hand over his chin. Crap. This is the worst spot in the world for an episode. "...Darla, I think we should head back inside. It's pretty cold, don't you think?"

"Head back inside and coop me up there to pretend I don't exist?" She snaps, abruptly. "Is _that_ it?"

Before he can so much as wrestle together a beginning, middle and end to a sentence, Darla starts crying. Buries her face into her hands and blubbers as if she's not a seventy-something, but _ten_ -something, loud enough to draw the gazes of a pair of deliverymen down in the front parking lot. Jackson feels the automatic impulse to soothe and redirect, like one of his hundreds (no, thousands) of patients. It's a dulled instinct from all these long, long weeks here, muffled, but still in-tact.

"Hey...Darla, hey, it's...it's okay..." He tries, slowly, barely able to hear himself over her sobs. Without warning she bulls up against him, nearly costs him his footing and sends him stumbling backwards. Jackson braces himself for the following angry push, or a grab, or _something_ , but...no. She's just clutching his middle and pressing her wet face into his hoodie. He places a hand on her head and sighs white into the air, watching the sky start a fresh fall piece by drifting piece.

He once was assigned a patient that confused him for her husband. She'd actually attacked her _own_ husband at their co-owned restaurant, confusing him for an intruder and nearly killing him with a knife. All because dementia had started to rot her brain. The entire time she was on the operating table she had no _idea_ the events that transpired at her own hands. It had been a horror show of the most mundane degree: first when she tried to understand why her 'husband' was wearing a lab coat, again when she told him she loved him.

That had been before he believed in a higher power. Before he asked questions on why a loving God would whisk someone away and leave their body to wither.

"I'm sorry, Davey. I'm _sorry_ about all that foolish stuff, it's in the past, but I'm here now, hm?" Darla grips the back of his shoulders, strength surprising for such old, trembling hands. "I'm _here_ and you're _here_ and we can still be family, right? I ain't _got_ nobody no more."

"'Course we can." Jackson murmurs, rocking her from side-to-side and staring at the glittering snow around them. "Of course."

It's a slow, steady, tenuous walk down the winding pathway leading to the front doors. The fresh snow is turning his footing more than he'd like (and he makes a firm mental note to pull out those winter boots). Jackson keeps an arm firmly around Darla, rubbing her thin shoulders as best he can and holding whatever dialogue she can manage. It's not always coherent; a diatribe about how lonely she is, a mention of seeing an angel in her room, a question about how he got so tall. He thinks back to his own moth-bitten memories a few months ago. Of broken windows and dead voices.

"...Davey?"

"...Hm?"

"Could you ever forgive me?"

Hina is standing at the front doors, brow eternally smooth and only the square of her shoulders betraying concern. The two deliverymen are next to her; they must've alerted her. Jackson gives them all a nod, then pats Darla's shoulder and gives it a little squeeze.

"...Of course."

Darla's primary nurse takes her to her room, thanking him for his help. Jackson writes down some notes on the numbness growing in his mind, then sits down with the poker crew for lunch in the cafeteria. Even though he should know better than to pry (with HIPAA pretty much _tattooed_ into his DNA), he can't help but ask:

"What's up with Darla's family?"

Both men look away from the television. His mother would likely classify Bill as a cantankerous old bastard. He's certainly the first two things, though he's _just_ affable enough (and uncaring about medical fame) to strike a high note in his personal book. Matteo, on the other hand, is composed of dead stares and grunts, with the exception of the rare moments he decides to share a cutting joke that always hits right out of nowhere. Everyone at this table is a hallmark of PTSD, in one way or another. Figures. He's so much of a failure the closest he can call a friend at this place is a little old lady _without_ it.

"Oh, her family don't see her." Bill tugs off his baseball cap to scratch at his receding hairline. "Not the once. Her mind's goin', so she _think_ they do, sometimes. Memory's all bungled up. You're a doctor, Jack, what's it called?"

"Dementia. Maybe Alzheimer's, which is a..." Jackson rolls a hand. "... _form_ of dementia."

"Right, right, that. Well, it ain't pretty, is the thing. See, she thought she was living some, whatchamacallit...Bonnie and Clyde _thing_ with that casino-owning husband of hers, way back in the day. She might be older than both o' us." He wheezes, nudging Matteo. The man gives him a sour look. "Then he got a heart attack and she got dementia, bless the years. Family always sendin' her back out here 'cause she keeps nickin' what ain't hers. Took my cap once. Gave it back, though. Think she's into the thrill of it more than anythin'."

"Took my cake slice during New Year's last year." Matteo mutters, scratching his ass. "Didn't give it back, thankfully."

"And _how_ do you know about all this?" Jackson drawls, putting his chin in one hand and poking at a cherry tomato with his fork. Bill tugs his cap back on.

"Oh, she _told_ me. Woman's got a mouth bigger than a humpback whale." He snorts, humorlessly. "Oh, don't look at me like that. It could all be total bunk, since she's crazy as a bat like the rest of us. Alls I know for sure is _someone_ keeps sendin' her back here every few months. It's certainly not the first I seen families get sick of their grandparents."

"Not my first time, neither." Matteo mumbles, eyes fixed on the television. Bill nods at Jackson's half-finished plate.

"You gonna finish that, Jack?"

Jackson prods at his pasta salad for a few seconds, then gives up the act.

"Nah. Take it."

It's a slow, slow day. The kind that makes him almost forget what it was like to check off his day into boxes. He retreats to his room to nap the food away (and to miss out on the nausea cramps). Returning to the television doesn't interest him when he wakes. The walk has, somehow, left him more tired than invigorated. Outrunning the incident with Darla isn't an option, unfortunately. It's the first thing Barnes brings up in his next session, the room's scent of coffee topping off the weariness instead of pushing it back.

"I heard about what you did for Darla. Her illness has been particularly unkind lately. It isn't easy to get her to cooperate once she's in a mood."

"Yeah. She cried pretty hard. I wasn't sure if I could get her back without yelling for assistance." Jackson rubs his forehead, steeling himself for a little more exhaustion before the day's good and over. Barnes studies him closely. He's got a new Moleskine in his lap. Ripe and ready for his personal dissection.

"How often do _you_ cry, Jackson?"

"...Not often." He starts to pick at his knuckles, then stops and folds his hands together. As if on cue, his eye starts to twitch. "Once in a while." He rubs at his face. "That the segue we're going for?"

"Absolutely. When's the last time, roughly?" Bernard presses, jotting down a note that is mostly likely detailing his subconscious physical tic in sumptuous fashion. He offers a small smile. "Give me something juicy and I'll let you out early."

Oh, that question's easy. When April was laying on her deathbed after a freak accident in a river.

He remembers, so _vividly_ , thinking, " _Well. There goes another one_." She was off to wherever Mark went. Wherever Lexie and Samuel and Derek went. He'd felt that thought loop as he stared at her pale form, stale as paper. Then he'd cried so hard his head hurt for days. He hasn't cried since. Felt the _urge_ , sure. Felt an annoying heat in his sternum that his mind always labeled 'inconvenient' or 'random'. Over time, though, even those urges would...fade. Shoveled under the pile of his life until the act became more a theory than a possibility.

A contradictory detail scratches the back of his mind at that, of his mother in the operating room and the long stretch of hallway broken by a red blouse, but it's behind another glass. 

He's troubled all over again. Success had him numb. Failure had him numb. Nisha's body cooling in the hyperbaric chamber, returning a little boy's hands to him against _all_ odds, good or bad it all resulted in the same _lack_ of feeling. He felt _something_ each time, surely an emotion, but before he could subscribe a label he was being swept off into the tide. How much better was he now? Maybe he's not breaking windows or punching people, but now he's got tactile horrors and the persistent suspicion his entire life has been one long, crazy dream. The pain in his jaw ebbs and flows in direct parallel to his stress levels, sometimes negligible and sometimes so scraping he wants to shear his face clean _off_.

Jackson shares the Cliff Notes version of the mess in his head, then puts his chin in his hand and thinks back to Darla's easy tears. How smoothly they flowed. Barnes, for once, looks down at his notepad as he writes, brow knitted with thought.

"...You're good at asking for help for other people, Jackson. Even better at helping them yourself." He raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to make eye contact before continuing. "Consider taking your own advice and letting someone shoulder the burden for a little. It's not the disaster you think it is."

Maybe not, when he's whet his appetite of disasters, but it's close enough.

They talk about coping mechanisms for when the pain in his jaw overwhelms, practicing grounding techniques that connect him to his immediate surroundings. They sip coffee and talk about grief (which he _should_ be feeling, after all that sharing, and isn't) and loneliness (take two). He leaves the session fifteen minutes early to nap, the letters left to him by Malani and Maggie still unopened on the bedside table. When he wakes he stuffs them both into his jacket pocket, then goes to take a midnight shower.

***

December 5th, 2019:

_therapist says i'm making progress. still dont think i'll be able to spend christmas with my family. i think I feel like shit about it, but its still kind of hard to feel much at the best of times. still frustrated with my mother. don't have the energy for april. miss my daughter. miss her so much I can't stand it. Trigger: nothing today. just..._

*

Food is finally starting to take. He's never been so happy to see a stupid hot dog in his _life_.

He doesn't even _like_ hot dogs, but last week the flavor hit perfectly (even as he wondered why the cafeteria chose summer barbecue fare for a winter evening). He'd wolfed it down and, before he could comprehend, the food was gone and he had to take a second to remember that's what happened when a person finishes a meal. The wait for the inevitable heaving session hadn't been pleasant. The telltale tickle of nausea came right on cue, bucking against a higher volume than usual...then nothing. Again. Again. Again.

He eats (more importantly, he _wants_ to eat), and the food stays down.

Snacking doesn't enter the routine, he's still not _quite_ that hungry, but it's progress. He's just happy not to be passing out like that one time (and, God, he wishes Maggie didn't have to see that). The change to his diet is stark enough his reflection changes again. Color is returning to his face, a golden glow he thought he left at Grey-Sloan for good, and the scratches on his right cheek are fading. Jackson rubs a hand over his beard and spares a grateful thought to the nurses. He would've pulled his cheek off that day, if they'd let him.

The bags under his eyes are still there, but that makes sense. So were the nightmares. He brings it up his next session, to his therapist's visible appreciation.

"What was the dream this time?" Barnes asks, adjusting his sweater's turtleneck. This is the first time he's seen the guy outside of a suit. Somehow this man made a corny piece of attire look downright noble. "I've seen you shaken before, like the dream about your past girlfriends, but not quite like this."

Jackson leans elbows on his knees.

"That dream was a little more... _abstract_ , at least. This one felt like real life. I was stuck in my mother's house and there were thousands of people just...banging on the windows. The doors. Flashing lights and yelling for me, calling out all sorts of rude, crappy questions. ' _Jackson, when are you coming back to work_ ', ' _Jackson, will you be giving up the rights to your child_ '. Woke up more exhausted than when I lay down."

"Those are pretty nosy questions, indeed." It's a rare glimmer of deep concern on the man's angular face. He's making more progress. "Are you afraid of being asked those once you leave?"

"No." Jackson rolls his eyes. "I mean, I don't look _forward_ to it, but it's nothing new."

"That's still a negative emotion, Jackson." Barnes reminds, gently. "That's still stress on your plate."

He's right. Like usual. Jackson swallows and nods. His therapist seems to take that as a small victory, pausing to pour himself a refill on his cup of coffee. This man has good taste in just about everything; it's a dark roast with this chocolate-y aftertaste, something he loves brewing outside of the omnipresent water jug. Jackson takes an offered mug gratefully. They both sip in silence for a minute, the outside world silent and the sounds of chattering in the lobby struggling to slip through the gap in the half-open door.

"...I've noticed a pattern with your dreams. All the negative ones, so far, you've been somewhere relatively cramped. A hallway, a house, a hospital. You've mentioned in your journal entries you hate being cooped up inside. What is it about the great outdoors that speaks to you, Jackson?"

Space. Quiet. Sunlight. It all washes over him like a _bath_ , every single time. Ever since he was a kid his most carefree memories weren't massive barbecues in gilded communities or going on private boat rides, but visiting rivers and lakes with Norbert back in Boston. It had been his very own pocket of unquestioned freedom before being slung back into structure, expectations and inevitable failure. Jackson almost _shudders_ with the need to feel the crunch of dirt beneath his boots. By the time he's done waxing philosophical Barnes is smiling wider than he's seen him.

"I'm thrilled to hear that. Fortunately, the great outdoors are in ready supply. What else do you like?" Barnes holds up a finger when he squints for clarification. "Depression affects your memory. Quite literally erodes sections of your brain, causing you to forget small, yet vital parts of your identity. This creates a spiral that has you falling out of touch with hobbies or people. Anything helps."

"...Chocolate." Jackson says, eventually. It's ridiculous, but Barnes just nods.

"That's a great one. I'm partial to dark, myself. What else?"

"Uh. A few uninterrupted hours to watch the game over some beer. Especially with a friend. Music, R&B and soul, some 80's pop. Oh! Breakfast food." All day he's had a craving for a traditional breakfast plate, an honest-to-God _craving_ , and he can't help but grin. "Good no matter the time of day."

"Pancakes or waffles?" Barnes asks. Jackson slaps a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised in mock offense.

" _Waffles_. Are you _nuts_."

Barnes holds up his hands in equally pretend surrender.

"All right. That's a passion I won't argue with. Now...how about who you _love?_ "

This man continued to catch him off-guard and make it seem entirely incidental. Jackson straightens.

"Harriet." Is his immediate answer. "My mother." He adds, tentatively, but with conviction. "...Um." Is the sloppiest way on the planet to pronounce Maggie's name, but his throat suddenly feels like it's stuffed full of lap pads.

"Um?"

"It's...messy." He says, lamely, and holds firm against the politely unimpressed expression on Barnes' face. Somehow, even his mother's most persistent and precise disapproval doesn't have _anything_ on this.

"...Find your facts, Jackson." He picks up the coffee pot, leans forward and refills his mug. "Hold onto them."

***

December 10th, 2019:

_had a bad meltdown a week ago. didnt want to talk about it with my therapist. I saw the news mention another cold snap. stressed me out. read some news on my phone later and saw mentions of a shooting. my jaw hurt so bad I cut my cheek open. I shouldve known better. i just wanted to pretend to be normal again, just for a little. Trigger: cold weather (ex-wife), shooting news. Coping strategies: took a long shower. read a book on sculpting._

_on the plus side, I'm sleeping a little better._

*

_"Here. Let me get that for you."_

_Maggie snorts a laugh when he rolls her over on top of him, trying to pretend like the move isn't one of the smoothest things he's done all morning (aside from make her a specialty brew and wake her up to the sound of Washington's nearly untouched wildlife). Jackson waits for her to adjust her weight, sliding hands up her bare thighs, enjoying how they prickle from buttery soft to a haze of goosebumps._

_"...You're ridiculous."_

_"And you're stubborn."_

_Maggie rolls those beautiful dark eyes, darker than the coffee he poured, and he's suddenly thirstier than he ever remembers being. Jackson ghosts fingertips around her leg, feels along the dip signaling the transition from thigh to cheek. She twitches from each new touch. Leans up and over a little as he rolls his interest against her, responding with a slow, unhurried grind of her own. Damn. He could be struck by a comet right now and die the happiest man on the planet. He sends a hasty thought to God a second later: a kind request not to follow up on that offer._

_"Come on. I admitted camping wasn't the **worst** thing ever." Maggie hums, settling elbows beside his head and idly plucking at his curls._

_"Sort of stubborn, then. Fifty percent and steadily shrinking. Forty-nine percent. Forty-eight." Jackson pauses, taps a finger on her hip. "Oop. Forty-seven."_

_"Oh, it's not shrinking."_

_Wow. Jackson takes his turn to roll his eyes, even though his love for her cornball humor betrays him and makes him chuckle, anyway. Maggie descends down to kiss at his baby hairs (maybe he'll keep it like this awhile), moving away only to nuzzle at his freckles. Jackson kisses at whatever part of her face he can reach, hooking two fingers in her boy shorts. He keeps them there in a constant anchor, not yet budging, waiting for the right moment in their haze of push-and-pull. Maggie squirms when he curls his leg, avoiding his knee, and they pull down, a reveal of brown that makes him come alive._

_She's not willing to give in yet. Maggie distracts him with a kiss, sinking in deep with a tilt of her head. Coffee tastes better on her. Jackson gives up the ghost, reaching around and squeezing her hard. Pinches a little, just to hear her gasp into his mouth, and happily accepts the sharp bite on his bottom lip as punishment. He grinds another request against her, stamping the damp cling of her underwear into memory until the day he dies. She takes early pity on him, or maybe she's coming undone, too. She lays over on him, stretches her legs out to wiggle out of her shorts entirely, and all he can manage is slipping his pants up his thighs._

_"Ugh, god, there's another rock. This place is teeming with them." Maggie groans, wriggling (wonderfully, infuriatingly-) to dislodge something unseen._

_"This 'place' is a forest, you know. It's got dirt and flowers, too."_

_Jackson reaches down to pat around for it, more than a little impatient...then startles when his hand meets nothing. He drops his head back with a frown._

_"...Really?"_

_"Just wanted to see if you'd actually look."_

_Maggie smiles and sinks down on him before he can think of a scathing comeback, and he can't really think of much at all. The closest they both get to banter are hungry pants into each other's open mouths as they start to rock the morning away. She's serenity in a silk package. A dapple of sunlight on a cold day. Jackson kisses a crooked river down her throat, not bothering to temper his groans in their little slice of forever. Maggie's forehead drops against the crook of his neck as she leans forward, then thrusts back, trying to reach her favorite spot._

_"...Come on." He splays his fingers against her lower back, urges her to take what she needs with insistent presses. "Come on."_

_Maggie nips his earlobe (a shiver like magic popping up his spine), then inches up and off his chest, leaning back to sit back on his hips fully. The early chill sneaks between them like a third wheel, but he ignores it, gripping onto her thighs for dear life as she starts rocking, then bouncing. She shies from his staring, closes her eyes both in rapture and embarrassment he can literally feel. He can't help it. He'll never know when he'll hear a choir of angels, but until then, his grunts and her gasps are his heaven on earth._

***

December 17th, 2019:

_talking to God again. really talking, not just...begging. asking him questions. trying to make things right. darla says she believes in god. asked me to pray for her and her grandson. she remembers me now, but who knows for how long? Trigger: cafeteria food, I think. my appetite's back, but i felt weird when I ate ravioli_

*

On a Thursday afternoon he attends his first sculpting session. It's so much fun he wants to cry.

One minute he's sliding the support wire in for the second wing, the next he's blinking back tears and explaining to the teacher that he just got dust in his eyes. He jots it down into his phone in-between carving out the face of his clay angel, an amalgam of all he knows and has known. When he thinks about it, really and _truly_ soul-searches into his personal muck...it's because he still _has_ it, when he feared it lost forever. His steadiness of hand and sharpness of eye, the ability to carve something beautiful.

Not that his angel is his _best_ work. The head is too small and the left wing won't stay up. When he's complimented on his handiwork by the other patients, though, it's hard not to smile, in spite of it all.

The urge to scratch only crops up a few times, and he's ridiculously proud when he resists it for most of the session. God's snickering at him, it seems, because when he goes to his next session he finds out he still got clay in his beard.

"Good to see you trying out new looks. Seems like my badgering is starting to take." Barnes tells him with a perfectly filtered smile. Jackson scoffs as he picks at the stiff clumps of hair, catching the flakes in his other hand as not to sully his spotless floor.

"Thanks. Thought Clayface would make a New Year's inspiration."

This session's a nice, casual break from the usual. He gushes about how natural sculpting felt, finds out a little about Barnes' minor in art history (what _hasn't_ this guy done in his life). Then the conversation veers to family. That same battlefield he's tip-toed so very carefully around since he got here. All his therapist has done is bring up his own child (a world history major staying in Morocco), but something in him rejects the word. The good mood from the sculpting class doesn't vanish entirely, but it curdles into a shadow of its formal self.

"I would love to hear more about your daughter." Barnes says, in a soft voice that suggests he's seen some of the pain on his face, and Jackson feels abruptly, stupidly helpless. He used to be able to hide his emotions better. "You don't talk about her much."

It's her. It's _not_ her.

"Maybe later."

"I understand."

When he leaves there's a metallic taste in his mouth. Maybe another tactile hallucination, maybe dehydration. Jackson beelines to his room, turning on the water in the bathroom and gulping down a few handfuls of water. It's not a problem. He's already admitted to being a fuck-up. He'll talk about failing his daughter, too, when his heart doesn't hurt too much. He's not going to talk about his son, though. Not _ever_. He could at least have _that_ , couldn't he? A memory to clutch jealously to his chest when everything tried to make him forget.

His improved reflection doesn't even make him feel better, because there's _still_ clay. Jackson sighs and rinses off his face thoroughly, dabbing off the excess with the blue rag on the rack. He's feeling around for any leftover flakes when it hits him. He looks down at the rag in his hands. This color was going to be the color of his crib, until April's mom showed up out of nowhere and bought them the black wooden set. He rubs his thumb down the soft fabric. ...It's so _small_.

He glances over his shoulder at the half-open door, a paranoid little bit of nothingness. ...No, he's alone. He's been alone for months, and will be for a few months more. Jackson takes in a deep breath...then rolls the rag. He bunches and folds the top, until it looks like a smooth, soft little head. Twists the bottom, until it almost resembles a thin body with tiny feet. It's...funny. Some treated children like a wrecking ball, smashing through the carefully constructed walls of their lives. When he found out about Samuel he felt nothing but stillness.

Jackson sits down on the edge of the bathtub, humming a little tune under his breath and rocking his son from side-to-side.

***

December 20th, 2019:

_tried out the gym today. never been crazy about the smell. one of the patients had a panic attack on the treadmill and thought they were going into cardiac arrest, so I sat with them and talked them through it. during sculpting class someone tried to eat magnetic sand and had to get sent to the ER. for a moment I felt like I was back at the hospital myself._

_miss that place._

*

For the first time since he came to Western Roth he visits the game room.

Maggie had the same idea for Grey-Sloan's supplementary rooms. Right alongside her plant room and blue room, because innovation was as easy as _breathing_ for her. The memory makes it hard to focus on the, admittedly, decent selection of titles the ward owns. Jackson mulls over the racing titles, then the sports titles, eventually selecting an RPG (a simple looking piece called 'Undertale' that a few of the other patients seem to like). He sinks into the chunky couch and crosses his legs, trying to ignore how the space next to him is consistently, aggressively empty.

It's been a while since he's sat and just...indulged. Jackson considers the perky intern he was back at Mercy-West, how indulgence for him had been the other side of the hard-working coin. Somewhere along the way that coin bent. So hard it couldn't be flattened back into shape. His jaw itches. Jackson pauses the game and starts to clench his fists, open and shut like Barnes taught him, redirecting that nervous energy. When he reaches up to touch his jaw -- not scratch, just feel -- he's shocked at what he feels.

... _It's growing back_.

He's overdue a makeover. Jackson saves his game, tries to imagine himself swelling with both the literal _and_ metaphorical magic of determination, and heads to his room.

It's been way too long since he held a razor to his face. For a numb second he just holds it against his cheek, completely at a loss on what to do next. ...Baby steps. Jackson sets it down and takes out the (grey) rag, running it under hot water until it steams and laying it on his face. Once his skin starts to throb he takes it off and starts with the tiny pair of trimming scissors, starting at the most jagged areas first, then working his way around with the precision of a minor surgery. When he's finished he doesn't _quite_ look like a million bucks, but at least better than a student loan.

Barnes compliments him on the shave, politely tells him he missed as spot by his left ear, then segues before he can feel embarrassed about it.

"Tell me about a happy memory. You can never have too many of those."

"The bridge overhang near Grey-Sloan."

"Why?"

Maggie had talked with him there. It'd been chilly, the sky above them open and broad with stars, and evening traffic was picking up below. She kept smiling at him (she was always smiling, back then-) and ducking her face into her shoulder. He'd say something, _anything_ , and she'd bob her head and flash those lovely teeth and laugh. Like just his presence was enough to light her up.

"It was a really bad and really good day." Jackson hunches and folds his hands beneath his chin. "I had a really bad meltdown. Mixed up with a crisis of faith, I think. ...Yeah. She's the one who suggested I might have PTSD."

Barnes raises his eyebrows, a flash of fresh interest passing over his face.

"...She sounds like quite something. Everything I've heard about her has been one glowing anecdote after the other." He sits up. " _Speaking_ of which, I heard you got some letters."

Jackson twists his jaw.

"Not...sure if I want to talk about that."

"You don't have to. It's just one of the many details of your life. One of many details starting to stack up on the pile of 'I'm Just Fine, Let's Change The Subject's. Now, you've certainly gotten better. I don't feel like I'm pulling teeth quite so much." Barnes smirks. "Pulling carrots, maybe. You'll surrender an unrelated detail in an attempt to acquiesce, which is a step, but still a sign of avoidance."

"One's from my patient. The one I had before I...arrived here."

"That's very kind of..." He trails off, meaningfully. God, this place feels like a bougie daycare sometimes. Jackson sighs.

"... _her_."

"That's very kind of her. What did she say?"

"Haven't read it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's hard to imagine why she'd want to write me a letter for throwing a stool through her window."

"Yet she still wrote you." Barnes says. "Mental illness isn't logical, Jackson. If it were, it wouldn't be mental illness."

Jackson scowls. Yeah, he _knows_ that. Being stuck in a psychiatric ward, after several years serving as board-certified surgeon has a way of keeping him in the know on basic medical _facts_. Just as soon as his hackles raise, they wilt, shamefully. ...That's not fair. His therapist isn't talking down to him. He's talking to him with more compassion than he's used to, his disappointment used to encourage instead of scathe, and letting him pull the rest up himself inch by shivering inch. Nothing like his mother, who corralled him like a prize horse and was _always_ too ready to let him know he didn't prance high enough.

Jackson blinks. Barnes blinks back at him.

"Looks like you just realized something."

"...Why...did I _do_ all that?"

"All what?"

" _Everything_."

It's far too vague, but Barnes is sharp as a scalpel. He wouldn't be such an in-demand psychotherapist if he weren't.

"I _would_ say emotional numbness and repressed anger issues on behalf of unchecked PTSD, grief and depression symptoms...but I get the feeling you've found a missing puzzle piece."

"I never shared how important Maggie was." Jackson's hands start to shake, the sensation of something huge pulsing all over. "She was more than my ex-girlfriend. She...she was..."

"Ah. I figured as much, based on those googly-eyes you got whenever you said her name." His voice lowers. "...So what happened?"

_He_ happened, with all the wretched calamity that now comes with the phrase. It all comes out in a flood. Jackson tells him about that fateful camping trip. About all that went wrong in a matter of _hours_ , as if the both of them had brought an emergency room's luck in their bags. He talks about the catastrophic marriage-then-divorce with his ex-wife he should've seen coming from the get-go, where all the red flags had been laid down like a trail of breadcrumbs toward an overturned truck, and how the bad fight in that forest had felt like yet _another_ tumble of rocks.

The pieces crash together, one-by-one, and it's all he can do to keep up.

"-Maggie was laying it into me, telling me I'm condescending and pushy, and she reminded me of April. The whole time all I could think about was our divorce. How we were always screaming at each other. How she left me alone, _again_ and _again_ and _again_. How she treated me like a pit stop in her life instead of a husband or even a friend. It's like...my brain thought of April, then that made me think of the fights, then _that_ made me think of the divorce, then..." Samuel's name throbs on his tongue. "...then the fallout. It's all I could see. It's all I could see."

His breath comes out short. Fast. Horrified.

"It was...it was going to be another April situation. It was going to be another landmine, blowing me to pieces, after I'd stitched myself back up. After the ambulance ride I went home and...I got so angry. I was so fucking _angry_. It's like it was already happening all over again and everything inside me shut down. I didn't want to talk to Maggie. Didn't want even want to _look_ at her." Jackson grinds fingers down his scalp. "She didn't do anything wrong. I was...too stupid overeager to go camping and she was already wishy-washy about the idea and I ignored that, begged her like a fucking five year-old." He huffs. "She also said she didn't like me."

"Do _you_ think she didn't like you?"

"...Yeah? Maybe? I don't know. A part of me thinks she was fed up and just lashing out. Another part of me thinks, yeah. She didn't. She loved me, maybe respected me in some areas, but like? Shit, I love and respect my mother. I'd die for her. Don't _like_ her one bit."

"Do you think she likes you now?"

"Ha, _I_ don't fucking like me." Jackson puts his chin in his hand, taps a morose finger on his cheek. "I can't fucking stand me."

"That's good."

Jackson frowns. Barnes holds up a finger.

"You didn't think it was a problem before. You do now. That's _growth_."

"That's not true. I...knew it wasn't right. Deep down. It's like there was..." Jackson makes a fist and hits it against his palm. "...wall. Beneath the coldness. Couldn't break through."

He thinks of Vic and the deceptively easy hours they shared in-between shifts. How their shared placebo effect eventually buckled and broke under the weight of their denial.

"I tried to distract it away. Fuck it away." Jackson mumbles into his hands, loathing the sound of his own voice. "Hooked up with one of our local firefighters, then...dropped her, too, feeling the exact same way I did after that camping trip. We fought over something so stupid at my apartment. It just kept coming _back_ , that numbness and need for distance, like a shoe was always about to drop and I was trying to outrun it."

If Barnes is disgusted with him, he doesn't show it. His hand hasn't moved on his notepad the entire time.

"And what would you call what you've been doing?"

"Um. Instinctive compartmentalizing, when I should've used the resources around me to vent and decompress. My fault. Maybe, uh, dissociating from all the stress and becoming numb to everything around me to cope? Not my fault. Grief. Running away to avoid _more_ grief. My fault." Jackson sighs and slides his hands down his face wearily. He should feel free after the confession, maybe proud, but he doesn't. "Happens so often I hardly notice it. Blink, it's on. Blink, it's off. I wish I could control it."

"You've gotten very good at pinpointing what's wrong. Forgive me the cliche, but knowledge is power." It's a stupid relief he feels when Barnes starts scratching down another note, albeit still very slow and ponderous. "You've found a form of control already, even if it just means spotting the storm and figuring out how best to ride it through."

He nods, distantly. It's such a sappy thought, such a useless one, and still, he finds himself wishing he had a time machine. He'd flick the switch back four or five months earlier and go back to that sunny spot in the trees to where Maggie was snapping at him, bugbitten and sweaty. Find that cold wall mounting in him and tear it down with both hands. Apologize to her good and proper when they got back home, make her dinner and rub her back and eat her out. He can't, though. The plow of mental illness and shit luck and his own damned hubris has razed permanent scars in the past.

Jackson rolls his fingers over his knuckles, losing himself in the beige pull of the far wall. Those gouges will be with him, and her, forever.

"...Do I deserve forgiveness?" He whispers. Barnes doesn't hesitate.

"That's not for you to decide." He bobs his chin. "Keep the ball rolling. Tell me about the other letter of yours. Or, rather, what you _don't_ know about it."

Jackson looks back down at his hands.

***

December 22nd, 2019:

_april called the ward for the first time. asked if I was going to visit for the holidays and do the christmas split we promised after the divorce signing. told her no. she wouldnt let me talk to harriet. said it would hurt her more in the long run. i'm just trying to do this right._

_i'm tired._

*

Sunday evening he watches a football game with some of the patients and nurses. Christmas cheer is thick in the air, and so is the compounded grief and shame of a sick populace.

He misses his friends and colleagues. Bailey, Alex, Link, Meredith, even that shithead Koracick. Ben, especially. That man's good humor could turn any exhausting shift into a day well done. He's been tempted to call him and catch up, but what would he even say? " _Sorry for all the rainchecks on game night. Broke a window and got sent to a ward in the hills._ " Barnes told him not to suppress the negative emotions -- loneliness, regret, self-loathing -- but, rather, to let them wash over him. Jackson rubs the back of his neck and does just that. Lets himself miss the good times on the lobby couch, even as he enjoys a good time _with_ good company. Nobody pressuring him or expecting something. Nothing but gleeful delight at each point scored.

" _Goddamn!_ Goddamn, did you see that-"

"Guy's a stooge. That was a fluke throw."

Bill and Matteo hoot and clap every time their favorite player scores a point, so loud it's a wonder the walls haven't cracked. Jackson crosses his legs and politely keeps his mouth shut that _his_ favorite team isn't going to be playing for another month.

"I'm tellin' ya, there's only one way they're gettin' out of that pit and it's through him-"

"Yeah, into a _deeper_ one."

Scoreboards flash across the screen. Intermission time. One of the new patients starts flicking through the channels, snapping at Bill when he tries to snatch the remote control back. Jackson folds his hands over his stomach and closes his eyes, passively listening and waiting for the right spot to play mediator, enjoying the warm lull of the lobby too much to move. Maybe he'll check out the cafeteria and try some of those gingerbread cookies out. He's never been crazy about them, but they sound really good right about now...

" _-and Sun Health Services is seeking to expand thanks to a new grant from Grey-Sloan. There's been a lot of hubbub on mental health these past few years. What do you think this means for the Avery Foundation?_ "

Jackson's eyes snap open. He jerks up right. ...The news? He looks at the clinging dress and business-casual of the two on the screen. ...No. No, it's a talk show, the type that interjects trending stories buried beneath gossip and tries to pass it off as news.

" _I don't want to seem judging. It's not my business. It's concerning, though, after the blowup of the Harpy Avery scandal. For those that are unaware, it was revealed that the founder of the famous medical award, Harper Avery himself, was guilty of several sexual harassment charges. I mean, I'm not going to put his grandson on that same level-_ "

" _Right, right, he wasn't accused of anything like that. He did attack someone, though. Allegedly-_ "

His photo pops up on screen, the professional one from Grey-Sloan's website and hanging on the doctor's wall with a black frame. Nearly everyone in the lobby is looking at the television now. The only ones that haven't are the patients checking their phones, but it's only a matter of time-

"Damn, Jack, look at you." Bill mutters, rubbing his chin. "You can really take a photo, man."

" _That was confirmed in a recent interview, actually...it makes me wonder what sort of example the Avery foundation is supposed to represent, both for the medical community and the country at large-"_

The ringing's coming back. The ringing, and the crackling fuzziness, as if his heart is pumping plastic instead. He doesn't think his legs are shaking, until he just about stumbles into one of the decorative plants trying to get off the couch, and he doesn't think he's sweating, until he rubs his face and his hand comes back damp. It's not a problem. It's fine. He just needs fresh air. He needs space. Now. He grabs his winter jacket from his room and walks back out, the beige hallway pressing in with fuzzy sheets.

Alicia stares at him behind the desk with a look more edgy than cheery.

"Are you...okay?"

Jackson takes the pen and twists it between his fingers.

"I need to go on a walk." The world's not so fuzzy he can't hear how desperate he sounds. "Please."

"Jackson, it's extremely cold, it rained last-"

"Please, _please_ , let me go. I just need some fresh air. _Please_."

For a moment it looks like she won't let him leave. If she doesn't, he'll run. He shouldn't, he _knows_ they'll just drag him back in, but he will. He'll run until his lungs give out and his muscles tear, until he slips and cracks his head open on the pavement. Jackson struggles against an audible sigh of relief when she doesn't refuse him, sliding him the sheet and clipboard. His signature has never looked so crooked.

"Thirty minutes." She reminds. "We'll send someone to check on you if you're not back by then, okay?"

Jackson thanks her, turns and walks out as slowly as he's able.

His lungs burn with the cold immediately. He can almost feel the veins in his body constricting. Jackson sets on the path leading around the ward and runs.

The snowy grounds blur into a haze of white, right alongside the blur of his thoughts. Nothing was his own. Not his dreams, not his ambitions, not his own damn _name_. That's not entirely true. As the television saw fit to remind him, he owns failure. A catastrophic tumble of _failure_ , a cacophony of broken bones starting from abandoning his patient to dragging his co-workers' trauma to the surface to shoving away his family and shredding one of the best things that ever happened to him with his own two hands. Justifying his self-sabotaging projects every damned step of the way, with a flippancy so cruel his own mother wouldn't _dream_ of it.

Past the fountain. Past the bench rows. Past the patches of trees. He finally comes to a stop at the bottom of the uppermost hill, leaning on his knees and panting heavily. Through his puffs of breath he stares at a tiny flicker of orange in the distance. One of the nurses is on smoke break. Checking on him, no doubt. Making sure he doesn't go too far, get too crazy. He scrubs hands over his beard and knits fingers behind his neck. He should go back. He instead moves further up the hill and into the fog.

They can't see him like this. They can't see him at _all_.

What the _hell_ was he going to do when he returns? Even if he gets his medical license back, everyone _knows_. His co-workers. His friends. His acquaintances, his business partners, his family. The media, too, no doubt, despite his mother's best attempts to hush it all up behind-the-scenes. Fuck, could he even finish a surgery again? Without whispers in his ears and itches in his skin? He's only recently started to learn how to _breathe_ again. Somehow he was going to go back, in less than three months. Back to the mess. Back to his mistakes. Back to the noise.

All the coping mechanisms he's learned go straight out the window like a goddamn chair. Jackson tugs at beard fitfully, digs nails into his scalp, tries tries _tries_ to remember what Barnes told him. What did he say last week? He wasn't fucking listening. He thought he was, he really did, but nothing sank in. He's supposed to...to run and relieve stress? But he can't run, because he doesn't go anywhere. He's supposed to...ask for help? He can't. He can't do _that_ , either. He either got help when he didn't need it or none when he _did_.

He failed Grey-Sloan. He failed his mother (and maybe she failed him, which still is so hard to wrap his head around-). He failed his family. His daughter deserved better than this. No, _everyone_ deserved better than this husk of a man, barely an Avery and no longer a doctor and a gone friend and cruel boyfriend and shit shit _shit_ person. Maybe now he can finally break the right way. Shatter into powder, leave far too many pieces to glue back together and _just_ enough to be cobbled into a box and lowered alongside all the great Averies of yore.

Jackson slows to a stop when he reaches the crest of the hill, panting softly and staring at the lone, white bench.

...Oh.

He's suicidal.

The ringing's faded. He can hear the city life again, distant as it is all the way down the hill and through the carefully maintained gates. The snow has the world muffled into a thick and wispy foam, the wind making the branches shuffle with an almost bashful softness. What...is he supposed to do now? If he wants to die and has a dozen ways to do it? He's supposed to call for help, but...he doesn't _want_ help. He just wants to lay down and wrap this entire mess up for good. It's not that he wants to die. That's not it at all. He's just _tired_.

The cacophony of thoughts pull at each other, straining to snapping, emotions rolling over him faster than he can subscribe words. Maybe these thoughts of death are nothing so new. He remembers feeling the urge to lay down and stay down after the divorce papers were signed, when he had neither a wife nor a son to greet with open arms. There was another time, too, when he had a great time drinking and playing darts with Ben, only to realize his Sunday was nearly over and he had a full, tiring, painful workweek ahead of him. No, it's nothing new. They're just louder now. Howling, instead of humming.

Jackson looks down at his watch. The clock ticks on, numbers that used to be associated with an entire life feeling like the half-recollected episode of a show he doesn't watch anymore.

_Find your facts. Hold onto them._

Okay. Okay. Jackson wipes snow off the bench with a shaking hand, then slumps down and pulls out Malani's letter, tearing open the envelope. He can hear her soft voice clearly. Almost loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head.

_Dear Dr. Avery:_

_I hope this reaches you well. I'm afraid I haven't been able to learn much about your situation, but I do know you're ill and currently recovering. I'm so sorry._

_I wanted to write this and share with you something important, something I had wanted to share back at the hospital and couldn't yet find the words to. The car crash had been an accident. The burns, however, hadn't._

Jackson swallows thickly. He had a suspicion about this, all the way from day one. The trust on display here rattles him to his very bones.

_I would ask you not to share any of this with my parents, but I get the feeling I don't have to. A part of me feels like you know something similar. That you understand what it's like to feel suffocated by everyone's expectations, to drown in others' dreams to the point you lose touch with who you are. You listened to me in a way not many have, Dr. Avery, and, even though it's been some time now, I haven't forgotten it. Not for a second and not a single word._

_It's strange, looking back on the crash. I remember every little piece of it. How I crawled out of the driver's seat, listening to the honking horns nearby and feeling my limbs move and being so...grateful. Grateful I was alive and whole, that I survived something so many do not, until I remembered what was waiting for me past the broken windshield. The same years. The same life. No friends, no dreams. Just carefully tended callouses on my fingers and a bar that never seemed to get any lower. So I plunged my hands into the burning engine, for as long as I could take it. I don't know if I'll ever tell them._

_You told me not to wait for a reminder. It came a little late, but that was through no fault of your own. I've loved music all my life, but I'm learning now it doesn't have to be soured by my silence. I want to play again, and this time, play for me. I may just travel when I recover. Perform live in Dubai or Paris. Maybe do some street shows in Japan. I'd love to see you again before I leave, if it's at all possible. I'm recovering at a reasonable rate and should be ready to go home by February._

_I hope you have a safe and loving holiday. Please hold onto joy, Dr. Avery. Whatever form it takes._

_\- Malani_

A few snowflakes have soaked into the page. Then a few more, heavier and bleeding the ink. Snow from him, _finally_ melting after too long frozen. Jackson sniffs, hard, and pinches the bridge of his nose. This letter isn't going to change anything. Malani's going to have to carry that trauma with her now. The trauma of a car _and_ the trauma of a doctor who destroyed what should've been the safest part of her cloistered, high-pressure life. It's such a miserable thing to think, after such a kind and forgiving gesture, and he hates himself harder than he thought possible.

Jackson clutches a fist to his mouth and sends a prayer for her. For her recovery and her joy both.

' _Find your facts. Hold onto them_.' He thinks, again, scrubbing his nose with his sleeve and folding the letter as carefully as he's able with numb, trembling fingers. The paper creases unevenly, a sight that has his heart spiking with wretched refusal. _Goddammit_. Does he damage everything he comes into contact with? His logical mind, however pummeled black and blue, reminds him the spiral exacerbates negativity. Jackson grabs onto the wispy thought thread, as best he can, and opens Maggie's letter next.

It's a slice through his skin. An operation so delicate that even the wrong breath feels like disaster. That sweet, lilting voice of hers fills his ears from the very first line, and he's sure she's right next to him, arm around his waist and cheek on his shoulder.

_Jackson._

_I'm writing this in the parking lot of the ward instead of going up and talking to you, because...you were right. Running away is easier._

_Things can't go back to the way they are, but that's not how scars work. What happened is going to leave a scar on both of us, and as doctors, we're responsible for helping them fade as much as possible. I mean, you're good at that, for sure. You're a Plastics expert. I'm not sure where this metaphor is going._

Jackson laughs, wet and clipped. His sound is edged with pain, pain at the truth he'd been holding out on _and_ trying to dream away. He should've known. It was too much to expect more from her after all the good things he stomped to death. Hell, this letter is more clemency than he deserves. He can barely see the words now through the blur in his eyes, but he pushes forward, anyway. To reach the inevitable conclusion.

_When I first met you I thought you were going to be one of those classic charmers. The ones that swooned and schmoozed around, especially with the way you spoke, all assured and slick. You more closely fit the cover of a celebrity lifestyle magazine cover than a medical peer, to be honest. Your mother dating my biological father was icing on the weird cake._

Jackson blinks. ... _That's_ what she thought of him? Maybe that was true during his intern days, sure, but he thought he'd grown out of that coat by now.

_Then, somehow, you snuck up on me. Pulled me into a gravity that didn't let go._

_You brought me an apple when I forgot to eat lunch. You brought me my mother's photos, then marigolds, then a shoulder when I couldn't leave the lunchroom that Wednesday afternoon. You snuck up on me, Jackson. You took me, everything I am, and spun me until I was dizzy. I'm still reeling from you. I've tried to deny it and paint it as other things, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I tried to pretend you weren't one of the most special things in my life. My good friend and study partner and dearest one. You've been special to me for longer than I've realized and, in trying to get you to remember what we had, I've just about nearly forgot myself._

Jackson's heart starts to pound erratically. Fitful snaps of flesh on flesh, the kind of beat Maggie would immediately pull apart and label.

_I want to be here for you while you recover. I was wrong about the things I said. I blamed you instead of letting you get back on your feet with a little grace, waffled back and forth when I should've made up my mind. I'm still hurt, I won't lie, and I don't know if I trust you anymore...but...I think I want to learn how. No, I do. I do. I'm learning how to fight for what matters and I want to learn how to fight for this. You just have to fight for me, too, Jackson. If you don't give it your all, this won't work, and it'll hurt so much more than anything that's ever happened. Can you do that?_

"Yes." Jackson whispers, gripping the paper so hard it crinkles, and he can't find it in him to care. " _Yes_."

_It's been hard these past few months, for both of us. Harder than I know what to do with. I'm trying to keep moving. I have a rechargeable heart presentation in January. I'd love it if you'd attend and maybe we can talk afterwards, catch up. Just...think about what I said, okay? Please be honest with yourself and what you want, because if you want to fight for us, then_

...The note ends there. There's no telltale streak or smudge, nothing to hint at what happened next, another thought or _hint_ of a thought. Jackson flips it over, turns it back and reads it again, a panicked spike cutting through him at already running out of more of her.

She must've gotten busy. Maybe just didn't know what else to say. Maggie was an energizer bunny. Doing one thing at a time was never her M.O. Jackson closes his eyes and holds the letter to his lips, imagining the scent of cherry through the sting, dark eyes drinking him in with deep swallows. ...She wants to try again. She's giving him a second _chance_. His smile trembles on his face, shakes all the way up to his brows, and he clutches the letter in both hands like a prayer. Then he leans down. Leans until his head is between his knees, each sob washing over him from head-to-toe, beating with the brutal and impersonal slap of ocean waves.

Dignity is a myth. His throat grates out these hoarse animal groans he's never made before, not during his most disturbing nightmares, not even when his ex-wife was falling through his fingers. He's not numb anymore. His body feels like it's trying to purge _everything_. All that's happened, all that he is, his flesh, his bones, his soul. It's another vomit session, but instead of his lunch it's _howls_ , foreign sounds he doesn't recognize breaking the peaceful winter into more glass. It goes on, and on, and on.

Being given second chances is the most incredible feeling he's felt in a while, and it _hurts_ , more than feeling his skin peel from a cloud of fire or glass in his hands _ever_ did.

On and on and on until somewhere, sometime, it stops. The voice he doesn't recognize sputters out of energy and is reduced to hoarse coughs and shuddering breaths, his head throbbing and the air freezing tracks onto his cheeks. His gravity swirls unreliably, and he thinks distantly he should drink more water. The snow bunches with life. He doesn't need to look up to know who it is. Hina's voice burns instead of soothes, and the few sane corners of his mind echo back that it's a good burn, not a bad one.

"Jackson, we're a little worried about you. You've been out here for over an hour."

Over an hour? It was supposed to be a _half_ hour. Jackson automatically pats at his jacket, but his phone's not there. He looks at the sky. He can't tell by the movement of the day, either, because it's as grey and dark as it's been all week. He tries to explain to her he wasn't _trying_ to make a mockery of the ward's rules, but the words that come out are mangled gibberish, strangled of the air or focus they need to make any sort of sense. Hina watches him with her usual passivity, a calm response so stable it makes him want to cry anew.

"...Seems this place is getting _everyone_ to be more honest." She says it with this knowing tone, like an in-joke he should know about, but he can't ask about it. He can hardly breathe. "Jackson. Are you all right?"

He thought he was. Then he broke the world, _his_ world, and doesn't know if he wants it put back together. The greatest parts of his life are out there in that world, numb and so, so strange, and he needs to be there, but he can't. Not yet.

"I..."

Jackson slowly licks the dryness from his lips, the letters in his hands trembling in the wind like the last leaves on a branch.

"...need help."

***

It's been _far_ too long since she's sang outside of her shower, but karaoke night at the bar ends up a smash hit. By the time Amelia comes home she's practically sleepwalking (no thanks to sneaking in a shot or two when she wasn't looking).

"Remind me to ask Link about that stash of Queen vinyls he kept bragging about. I need to see it with my own two eyes." Amelia waggles a suspicious finger. "I can't tell if it's him being all roundabout on what he wants for Christmas or if he's being honest. Maybe it's just my own pessimism. Link's nothing _but_ honest."

"It's definitely your own pessimism." Maggie reminds as she unwinds her scarf from around her neck. "One time I asked him how he was doing and he said so-so. I don't think I've _ever_ met someone who willingly surrenders a so-so."

They take a second to stomp snow off their shoes, her sister surrendering another sad mutter about wanting to see Cadence before bed. Maggie assures her she's still a good mother if she occasionally hands babysitting due to Alex and Jo, then reaches down and plucks a delivery box off the steps.

"Think you got something in the mail, Amelia." She blinks, then presses it to her nose. "Huh. Smells _really_ nice."

"Whatever it is, you can have some. The gremlin no longer needs sustenance, but I do." Amelia calls from inside the kitchen. She squints when she sees it. "Oh, that's for you, Maggie."

Maggie blinks, and checks the cover.

"...Oh."

When she unwraps the box its a smooth, shiny mahogany. Fancy enough to make Amelia blink away the sleepiness and peer closer. Maggie carefully works off the lid. It's a bottle of wine. Reserva cabernet sauvignon from nearly _fifty years ago_. It's nestled in paper curls, right beside a thick white block of artisan cheese (herbs and garlic she can smell through the wrapper) and tiny artisan meats, so savory her teeth feel the automatic need to chew. It's all topped off with a little red box of dark chocolates shaped like cherries (and probably filled with them).

"Jesus _Christ_." Amelia breathes, reaching in to pull out the cheese and admire it in the light. "A little early for Valentine's, but I'm _definitely_ not complaining."

Maggie picks up the little red card with trembling hands, unwinds the little gold ribbon and flips it open. It's a blocky scrawl she couldn't confuse for anyone else's if she tried.

_Thank you._

* * *

_Asking for help is more difficult, and much easier, than it looks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Becoming numb and distant to people you care about is a pretty scary feeling. 
> 
> What's worse is when you start to thaw back out again and realize just how unhealthy the past days' (weeks') isolating and bitter behavior was. It can get bad enough to make you want to go _back_ to the numbness, and so the cycle begins anew. Season sixteen has left me in the simultaneously unpleasant-yet-invigorating position of having to interpreting OOC behavior into something resembling sense, and this is a _big_ theory I've been leaning on for Jackson's behavior. Emotional numbness is a _nasty_ side-effect of PTSD and depression and one of the more subtle issues that can be overlooked.
> 
> This is a very beloved song inspiration, both for the melody and lyrics. It was fun interpreting it through the lens of the story. I thought to myself on how the language used could sound passive concerning Jackson's situation (' _september, that's when she went away_ ') -- I like to think that passive phrasing is Jackson's dissociation coming in. How he's been viewing everything through a very numb and impersonal glass, swapping places with the one that _actually_ left in September.
> 
> ' _September, I guess you're loving her, she said she's going to stay, I wait for your return_ ' = slowly, but surely, reality comes back, with the acknowledgement of the lonely month he sentenced Maggie to. ' _December, girl, I'm hungry for your love_ ' = coming to terms with his feelings a few months later and how they've been clouded.


	8. oh, how

**Song Inspiration:** "Give Yourself Away" by Mickey Blue

*

_you're all too familiar_

_my pillar, my strength_

_lay down my foundation and blow me away_

* * *

_The link between pain and pleasure is the subject of many a song._

_It's actually hard to engage with any story, whether modern or a hundred years old, without that dissonance being mentioned. It's strange, isn't it? How kneading into a sore muscle can feel both terrible and wonderful all at once. How a build-up to an orgasm can be so powerful as to take our breath away while also making us beg for mercy. Sometimes our brain mixes up the right time to release serotonin and endorphins, making pain feel like the best thing that ever happened to us. Other times, genuinely good things feel so good they hurt._

_Oh, how._

* * *

_It's cold._

_Her phone says the temperature is at a steady sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, but she's cold. Her chest is hot, but her fingers are cold. Her chest is throbbing, but her skin is cold. Everything is out-of-order. The details of her life aren't fitting like they used to. Maggie curls her knees to her chest, staring off into the swaying black wet with a future spring shower. Maybe if she closes her eyes long enough she won't wake up. She can disappear and put an end to this bad dream, every atom of her body pulling apart row after string after bridge until she's little more than a cluster of sensation._

_She's still cold when Jackson peels out of the dark, a box under one arm and his eyes full of something she's never seen before._

_"She didn't come to me because I was the best. She came to me because she was dying."_

_The warmth returns to her fingertips as she looks at her mother in front of the Eiffel Tower. Her mother in front of her old Boston home. Her mother at a tiny cafe with a too-large in-house latte. Jackson chuckles at the photo of a skydiving trip, hands folded in his lap and the warmth of his shoulder bleeding through her thin blouse. He grows silent at the photo of her mother in front of her condo in Hawaii, where even the glittering sun by the beach can't wipe away the hunch in her shoulders._

_"She figured I would do my best to take care of you, and she was right."_

_The scent of burning oak logs cling to his sweater. He smells like fire and rain. He feels like patience. For the first time since she's met him..._

_...he looks like home._

*

January 1st, 2020:

_new year. new me. getting my medical license back, reconnecting with my friends and family, taking more paid leave, they're all goals that sound nice on paper. didn't make new year's declarations, though. not when life still feels like the biggest thing I can achieve. just need to keep moving forward. I think, for now, that's enough._

*

One of the older patients, a Navy veteran named George, had a heart attack while jogging.

He found him on the ground during a morning jog. God must be keen on reminding him of the medical career he left behind, because his timing was as critical as it could get. The man's body was still warm, the color in his pale cheeks not _quite_ gone. The cold weather could've made his already weak constitution worse. The insistence on too much exercise no doubt a factor, too (and it's not like he was any better himself). There was no heart medicine in his pockets, though, nor any chest pain medicine. He had to roll him onto his back, lift his shirt and start CPR. He'd left his phone in his room, so there was little choice but to scream and _scream_ for help, a prayer hammering in the back of his mind.

_Not today. Not today. Not today._

Another jogger had been on the bottom slope, close enough to hear him and run to the ward to fetch help. The paramedics arrived seven and a half minutes later and revived him. Everyone in the ward now calls him Dr. Avery. All except Barnes, of course, who held fast to his promise to call him by his name since day one. Jackson thinks about it all while continuing his playthrough of Undertale in the game room, calmer than he remembers being in a long, _long_ time (the happy mutters of the young adult group surrounding his peripheries, now having accepted him into their fold).

Barnes is delighted to hear it. He always seems genuinely happy about his progress, and even though it's his _job_ to be, it still...means a lot.

"The board-certified doctor has always been there, Jackson. He just needed to rest, too. According to George, it's paid off nicely." He fills up his mug to the top and sets the coffee maker back on its stand. "Have you come to any other epiphanies lately?"

Jackson takes a slow sip, appreciating the rustic, bitter flavor for a few moments before responding.

"...I never felt like a person growing up."

Barnes slowly leans back with one eyebrow arched.

"That's quite a realization. How come?"

He knows he's changing when the truth just falls out of him like that.

"Because I...just _wasn't_." He chuckles, even though there's nothing remotely funny about it. "I'm an Avery. An ideal. A _symbol_. I mean, that's a pretty fair trade-off, right? Swap out humanity for a net worth of $20 million, enjoy your tax write-offs. I never talked to anyone about it because I didn't want to seem like I was... _whining_. I was either too rich to complain or too pretty." Jackson rolls his thumbs over one another, watching the snow drifting through the window. "Mom made sure I knew."

"Being rich and pretty is, _admittedly_ , a difficult starting point for sympathy." Barnes takes a second to stretch, then sinks back into his chair and props his ankle on one knee. "Not feeling like a person, though...that's the root of a lot of damage in today's world. It's not the most common confession I'm given as a psychologist, but it's among the most catastrophic."

The muscles of his jaw begin to tickle. Jackson closes his eyes and takes another, deeper sip of his coffee. It's not the cresting pain, but needling. Prepared to pick up on the old, dusty memories and use them as fuel for the fire, if he doesn't mind it.

"The nuanced definition of humanity is a social category contingent upon a _lot_ of factors. Many of them arbitrary. Many of them nebulous." The man continues. "You've been prescribed more than most, aside from racism and your now precarious claim to neurotypicality. Do you feel like a person now?"

This truth comes easy, too.

"No."

Barnes' gaze softens. It's the kind of look that tells him it's okay to continue. That maybe he's a little sorry about it all. Jackson stares at his scruffy, rippling reflection in the coffee.

"All my life I was...the pretty one. My family, my teachers, my friends...they expected _just_ enough to make them look good...and not much else." Jackson runs a thumb over the cup's rim. "Good grades. Good health. Sharp, shiny smiles, whenever the camera was on us, at least. Otherwise it was... _I_ was...not much else. They never really asked how I was doing. They'd ask about school. Extracurriculars or the social ties of a girl I was dating. If I brought up things I liked, or was just curious about, though, they'd change the subject. Joke it off. Eventually I got the hint."

"The subtle things can hurt the most. They're certainly the hardest to pinpoint. You said you never shared this growing up. Have you brought this up to anyone recently?" Barnes asks. Jackson starts to speak...then stops.

...He has. Sort of. It'd been so _long_ ago. Five years? Six? He barely remembers swapping out those orange scrubs for a blue pair. Mercy-West. Even the _name_ doesn't sit quite right, like a pair of socks that scrunch his toes.

"I...think I did. I remember telling a co-worker about it when I first transferred to Grey-Sloan. Well, it wasn't Grey-Sloan _yet_ , it was Seattle Grace, but...yeah. Don't remember what we were talking about. School or family or something. 'I'm the pretty one in my family. My eyes, my smile. You should see me without a shirt on, it's ridiculous.' I played it off as a joke." He huffs into his cup. "Maybe as a flirtatious remark. I was kind of a slut."

Barnes snorts, so hard he pinches his nose, and Jackson realizes a second later he caught him off-guard mid-drink. Seems like a _lot_ of firsts were happening today.

"While I can't say much to that, what you've been describing to me concerning your family...you're still living in the aftermath of a negligent, high-pressure childhood." He puts it together so easily. "Your mother was, and is, extremely controlling. Manipulative, too, by the sounds of it. Your grandfather had been harsh and dismissive. You don't recall him fondly. Your father left. You had family members that cared for you, such as your uncle, but you didn't see him often, nor did he have much pull. They slowly, but surely, turned a high-achieving child into a living, breathing figurehead."

"Well." Jackson's mouth starts to tremble. "...I _was_."

"To be dehumanized is to be suffocated, even if you can still, technically, breathe." Barnes's dark eyes study him. Then he adds, gently. "It's okay."

The permission helps. Jackson rubs at his nose, then presses his face into his hand, leaning through the slow, hot burn working its way down his face. Barnes scritches down some notes in the meantime, the sound erratic and strangely soothing. The rest of the confession finishes scrawling itself out in his mind as he wipes away at his eyes. Maggie...never liked calling him Avery. Not even to tease. She never saw him as the long arm of the family. Wasn't impressed _or_ intimidated by the wealth. She just saw...him.

"How much does your mother know?" Barnes asks, once his sniffling's died down. "You've fought with her before. I heard a little myself, when you first came here."

"She doesn't know a _lot_ of things about me." Jackson mutters. "Despite her best attempts to the contrary."

His therapist grows quiet. Pensive. Instead of writing notes, he reaches into his desk and pulls out a thin book.

"Jackson, how much do you know about narcissistic personality disorder?"

He knows enough. He had to take psychology classes at university and the term popped up a few times, as part of the B cluster with borderline and histrionic. There hadn't been much reason to look too deeply into it due to his preferred specialty, beyond rattling off diagnoses to satisfy test scores. Now that Barnes brings it up, though, something in him shakes to attention. A weak, knock-kneed little _something_ , tugging in attempt to free itself from the roots of a very old and very heavy acceptance.

"...A little." He responds, eventually.

"All right. I'm going to provide you a little reading material for the rest of the week. I think it'd be worth giving the first few chapters a look tonight, if you're not too tired."

"Okay." Jackson takes the book and studies the cover. Suddenly, he's scared. Heart-stoppingly so. "Um. I'm going to have to talk to her later. When I go back out. I-I don't know when, but...I'll have to. Eventually."

Barnes' confident nod is the lifeline he needs.

"Let's talk about that during our next session, then. We can practice exercises to help you navigate certain behaviors. Until then, remember boundaries are not an insult. They're not a barrier or cowardice. They're a kindness, to yourself, and just like any kind act, they take time to learn how to execute properly." He reaches into his desk again and hands him a bookmark. Sleek and elegant, like him. "So. Got any plans for today?"

Jackson smiles.

***

January 7th, 2020:

_jogged around the grounds. had eggs benedict with the game crew. worked on my sculpture. prayed to everyone this morning. mark. lexie. derek. diane. my son. told them I'm not joining them quite yet. i still feel tempted sometimes, and it's a little scary, but...i'm trying. i'm trying._

*

Teeth brushed and aftershave applied? Check.

Phone charged and (most) messages replied to? Check.

Gift list and off-site day schedule reviewed? Check.

It's so cold his brows don't just freeze, but feel like clay. Jackson takes in a deep, cold breath and sighs it out. ...Fresh air has never felt so terrifying.

He punches the thought into his phone, right before calling for his ride, and the words look just as weird as the sensation feels. Suicide watch continues to give him a whole new appreciation for the little things. Jackson looks in his phone mirror, adjusts his collar, checks the light trim on his most recent 'shave'. The patch is barely noticeable now. He'd considered going entirely clean shaven, but bare skin would show the scars, too. Even worse, he'd have a higher chance of being recognized. It was the look he rocked most at Grey-Sloan.

He's tugging at the bags beneath his eyes, considering the merit of buying foundation for non-interview purposes, when a wrinkled hand pats his shoulder.

"Baby girl's not gonna care if you show up to school in a chicken suit, go on ahead." Darla says, still in her chunky New Year's sweater with little sparkle balls. Jackson huffs and stuffs his phone away, then gives her hand a squeeze.

"Thanks."

Maybe consciously she won't, sure, but she _will_ notice. Kids are far sharper than society at large is willing to admit. Harriet deserves to see her _father_ today. Not the cobbled together pieces he's pulled together these three and a half months.

"You tell me all about it over checkers tonight, okay?" Darla says when his Lyft pulls up. Jackson waves out the window.

"It's a plan. You go inside and stay warm."

Then he checks his pocket to make sure his phone's still there. Just in case.

"Where to, sir?"

"I got the address on my phone. Here."

Jackson slumps in his seat and loses himself in the spin of the trees, the realization that he's leaving the ward for the first time in months somehow more anti-climactic _and_ nervewracking than he thought it'd be. He used to be good at juggling acts. Now that the new year is in full swing he's waiting for an entirely different ball to drop (if not all of them), and turn him into the most incompetent clown alive. ...Well. Maybe not the most incompetent. April's going to be picking Harriet up from school today, relieving him of at least a little parental pressure. Maggie's presentation is also today.

He has to be back to the ward by ten, with wiggle room of a half hour for traffic. Jackson pulls out his phone and scrolls over his to-do list. It's a lot. Once upon a time, he could do a lot. Check, check, check.

First, he swings by a newly opened local brewery. It's _extremely_ tempting to chug down a courage drink, but Barnes had a nose for guilt. Then he visits Ben. The man isn't working today, which, considering firefighter schedules, is a miracle of good timing. When Jackson knocks on the door he just stands and stares. Judging by his extra thick sweater _and_ the damp spot on his jeans, he's been working on something in the backyard.

"Hey, uh. Sorry to show up out of nowhere. I hope this isn't a bad time-" Jackson starts, only to be grabbed by the shoulder and tugged into a _fierce_ hug.

"Oh, _shit_ , man. Shit, how have you _been-_ " He breathes, clapping his back and laughing heartily. "Of course it's not a bad time, I haven't seen you in forever."

"It's been all right." He says, as honestly as he can, hugging him so tight his arms hurt. "Very all right."

Ben tells him about Bailey (currently at Grey-Sloan, he won't get to see her by the time she gets off her shift, he finds out with a sink of his heart). He tells him about barbecue he bought to prepare for summer. The aftermath of the miscarriage is in his eyes. He can catch it _just_ before his good friend flashes one of his usual charming smiles and segues into the design ideas he has for the fence. He wants to talk to him about it. He _will_. Just not now. Jackson holds up the gift.

"So, you're doing yardwork in less than thirty degree weather _because_..." Jackson starts, squinting. Ben waves a hand.

"I had to deal with _three_ fires this week. I like the cold. A lot."

And Maggie thought _he_ was weird.

"Fair enough. Oh! I grabbed some beer from the new brewery near the hospital." Jackson pulls it out of its paper bag. "They had this IPA I thought you'd like..."

He pauses when Ben squeezes his shoulder and smiles.

"I'm just glad you're doing better, man. That's the biggest gift I could ask for." Aw, shit. Jackson's sure his eyes are going to leak right out of his head. The guy raises his eyebrows. "Thouuugh I'm not going to turn down free _beer-_ "

"Give yourself a drink." He says, twisting off one of the tops, then another. "You've earned it."

"We've earned it." He clinks his bottle against his, then raises it. "Cheers."

It's just like old times. They shoot the shit on the porch for a few minutes, then retreat inside when they start to shiver. The house looks pretty nice, with a new couch and what seems to be a new slew of family photos. Ben is too distracted talking about a harrowing fire call he got to show them off, and it's a tidbit of luck he appreciates. He's on a deadline, though, and only has so much time in the day to shoot the shit. Jackson enjoys one of Bailey's homemade cookies, then takes his leave. Ben makes him promise to call at least once a week.

Next he goes to a local floral shop (and the only one still open in the area). The options aren't as varied as they are in spring and summer, and there's still enough to get his eyes dancing. He browses on his phone for floral symbolism. He's not even sure if Maggie paid attention to things like that, but he'd rather be safe than sorry. Red roses might be a little on the nose (and he'd already sent her wine and chocolates). Camellias, though, were a little _too_ sexy. The anemone, apparently, means anticipation, but it also means forsaken love, which is absolutely _not_ the direction he's going for.

He's pretty sure the last time he felt like his lungs were going to pop was his first prom date. Oh, for Christ's sake. He used to be _really good at this_.

He doesn't have the pick of the litter in the dead of winter, either. All the colors and smells start to stack on top of each other. What about the hydrangea? Depending on the color it _could_ mean apology, but it could also mean the desire to understand someone more deeply. God, maybe he should just buy her the whole damn flower shop. He could do it. The woman at the counter starts to eyeball him a little, which he takes as a sign to get a move on. At the last second he decides to go with a combination, because anything less would feel...well, _less_.

Pink roses for gratitude. White roses for humility. Red roses for love.

Once the flowers are wrapped up he heads to the school (and a few minutes early, to boot). ...What's the opposite of deja vu? Jackson racks his brain for the word as he steps out of the car and onto the curb. Every old place feels new. Every new place feels old. He knows his daughter's campus like the back of his hand, or he thought he did, but he realizes with the same speed of frost on a car window that nothing ever truly sticks. The flood of shrieking voices washes past him, slippery and informal, bouncing backpacks and waving arms in his peripheries less alive and more like more lumps of snow. That is, until-

" _Harriet!_ "

A shock of curls crests over the white lawn, a posterboard flapping behind like a flag.

" ** _Daddy!_** "

It's like a scene out of a corny drama from the nineties, except it's his life. It's happening, right now, to _him_ , and he can hardly believe a second of it. Harriet nearly bowls another kid over as she tears through the snow in a mad dash, dropping her poster to better fling herself into his arms. Jackson lifts her into the air, burrowing his face into her little curls and the knitted scarf she chose today. Oh, finally. Oh, _finally_.

"Daddy, Daddy, _Daddy-_ " She kicks her feet wildly, knocking her wet boots into his hip. Jackson _laughs_ , swinging her around in a circle just to hear her giggle hit a high note.

"God, _look_ at you. You're so big." He leans back to look at her properly. She's grinning so large he can see another lost tooth (a memory he missed, but she's here, she's _here-_ ). "You ask Santa to make you taller or something?"

"I asked Santa to make Daddy better." Harriet flashes her new gap. "It worked!"

Jackson's smile fades. ...Oh.

"...Princess, woah, look at this-" He ducks down and picks up her poster. "Did you draw all this?"

"I'm doing a presentation on the Tasmanian tiger, I drew the picture, Jenny did the stickers, there and there, and Chris is gonna wear a mask, he made the mask but I painted it-" She babbles, a mile a minute (with all her ground to cover, no doubt-). Jackson nods and hums under his breath, trying to tamp down on the guilt. It's not quite so hard, when her cheeks are so rosy and she's right here, warm and snug in his arms- "Daddy, I want you to come see the hallway, they put my picture there."

"Okay, sweetheart. Okay." He kisses her forehead, then, helplessly, clutches her tight to his chest again.

He thanks God a thousand times over his senses haven't run off with him today. That he's not smelling latex or smoke, but strawberry chapstick and what's probably sugar cookies from a school bake sale. He's not hearing dead people speak, but his daughter's beautiful voice. This is the best day, and he's so _lucky_. Harriet wriggles.

"Daddy, come on-" She whines. "Let's _go-_ "

"Okay, okay."

That was the easy part. Now for his therapy to kick in. Jackson holds firm to his daughter's hand as she leads him past the lobby (where the secretary eyes him for a second, unrecognizing-). April's probably sitting over in the waiting chairs. He breathes through his nose and steels himself for the argument. It's probably going to be a passive-aggressive jibe about his absence. A paper-thin concern about his health. She was very good at sneaking in cuts. By the time he noticed a dot of blood she'd be off on another tangent, and it'd be too much effort to make a fuss.

When he turns the corner and finds the chair row it's not red hair that greets him, but a pressed perm, white peacoat and bold lipstick.

"...Mom." Jackson halts, abruptly. "...Hey. Didn't expect to see you here."

Catherine smiles demurely, holding her hand out for Harriet. The girl is _beside_ herself, bouncing up and down and squeaking.

"Grandma, Grandma, Daddy's going to take me home."

"Actually, _I'm_ going to bet taking both of you to go see Maggie's big presentation, okay?" She doesn't pick the girl up, what with her dripping shoes, but she leans down to her level. It's not a good idea, with her back. "She's doing something _really_ cool with rechargeable hearts. Like a battery, right in your chest!"

She gives Harriet's chest a poke, which makes her giggle and bounce. Jackson's mind hastily rearranges like a rusty engine being slammed into overdrive. He straightens up, stiffly. Did he always hunch this damn much? He wonders if it was a subconscious need to shrink himself. Fold himself away so the Clash Of Titans could proceed without interruption.

"There's so much you can learn from her. When we're done, you'll show all the other children how a Tasmanian tiger TED Talk is _really_ done."

"What's a TED Talk?"

"Candy for adults."

Then Catherine stands up straight (with a slight hitch to the movement, she should _know_ better) and gives him an apologetic look.

"I'm so sorry, baby. April got sick today and asked if I could do her a favor. Matthew _would've_ picked her up, but it'd be an hour later after he got off a shift-"

"It's fine." Jackson shrugs. Of course his ex-wife didn't feel the need to warn him about it, knowing full well how he felt. "Thanks."

"Of course." She fondly rubs Harriet's curls. "Any time spent with my babies is precious."

The double-meaning isn't lost on him. While she fixes his daughter's scarf Jackson pretends to be interested in the big banner on the wall. It's for a play based off a young adult novel he's never heard of. It's not something he should take personally, when it's not even his intended age group, but it's just one more thing he doesn't know about this school. His _daughter's_ school. Then his skin bristles when his mother reaches out to touch his arm, a light brush that suggests something much heavier to come. No. Today's not the day he gives her an _inch_.

"Jackson, I just wanted to say-"

"I have to be back at the ward by ten p.m." He says, shifting _just_ out of reach and rubbing at his short beard. "I can take another leave on Monday after my appointment, then the, um. Meeting. With the other PTSD patients."

"Oh. Good, baby. That's good." Catherine smiles down at Harriet when the girl jiggles her hand for attention. "How's that been going?"

"Good."

She _sighs_ , and he feels it, again. The need to hunch and smile and soothe.

"Are we seriously going to do this again today? Over three months and all you've been giving me are monosyllabic answers with big slices of radio silence. I've given you some space to sort things out, haven't I? I helped you get a gift for _Maggie_ , remember?" She adds, one thin eyebrow raised. Jackson's stomach twists sharply.

"...Yeah, I do. Because my bank account got frozen after I lost my-" He remembers Harriet and pauses. "-got _sick_." Now he arches an eyebrow. "Do _you_ remember?"

His mother's smile fades. Her eyes darken with a rebuke. Then Harriet squeals about wanting to _go go go_ , and she smiles down at her and insists they're off, already. Catherine sits in the back with Harriet and he slouches back in the passenger's seat next to Jonathan, crossing his arms over his chest and pretending to take a short nap that's only partially faked.

It's the quick-injection confidence boost he needed. Before he knows it they're at the convention center just outside the university. It's not a small turnout, either. The second he steps out the heat in the air is _palpable_ , a cluster of breath and bodies numbering in the hundreds that almost makes him forget it's January. Jackson feels the urge to hunch when eyes pass over him and linger. ...It's just one day. One day, with his family. He can do this. He squeezes his daughter's hands and lifts her up over the snowdrifts as they make their way to the entrance, enjoying the way she swings her legs like she's flying.

"Thanks for coming! Please, take these-"

Jackson studies the heart keychain one of the floor workers hands him. The flashlight's pretty strong, honestly. It might make a good camping addition. The thought makes him feel weird (what if they'd never gone, would things have turned out like they did-). He hastily stuffs it into his pocket and lets himself be tugged along by Harriet, squealing at her new gift and the prospect of new goodies. He silently thanks his instinct not to go for a full shave when they walk through the crowded hallways. The whiplash response that comes with his clean-shaven combo is kept at bay. A few people stare at him, but it's manageable. Barely, but manageable.

...Still. Jackson excuses himself to go to the bathroom, finding a tiny men's restroom and locking himself in it for a few pounding, shaking minutes. He unbuttons his coat to let some air in, then clenches and unclenches his fists. Counts to fifty backwards and washes his hands. When he walks back out he keeps his face turned at an angle, more often than not, and breathes easier around the twenty-somethings than the forty-somethings.

"Show's about to start, sweetheart." Jackson says when he finds where they're both seated, sitting her on his lap and plucking a stray leaf out of one of her curls. "Want to grab a few of those heart cookies afterwards?"

"Can I have one now? Please, please?"

Jackson glances from side-to-side, then leans in close and whispers in her ear.

"If you show Maggie your very _biggest_ support during her speech, you can have as many as you want. How's that?"

Harriet leans close to whisper back.

" _I want a thousand_."

The auditorium is buzzing eagerly, the on-and-off blink of lights suggesting everyone's enjoying their complimentary gifts. Harriet has hers out, too, waving zig-zags on the ceiling. Jackson takes out his and chases after hers in an impromptu game. His heart starts to pound, though, when the event organizers start milling onto the stage, checking the audio and conferring amongst themselves. He tugs out his phone and double-checks to make sure his beard is even (though there's nothing he could do about it at this moment if it weren't). The _damn_ bags under his eyes, though. He looks like a damn raccoon. Maybe he should ask his mother if he can peek into her make-up kit...

As if hearing his thoughts Catherine pops open her purse and starts rifling through. Jackson scratches his nose and pretends not to be glancing inside it. Eyeshadow. Lipstick. Mascara-

"Maggie invited Chris." She says, pulling out her lip gloss and dabbing it on with the help of a pocket mirror. "Richard's brother." She adds, when he just blinks at her.

"...Right. His, uh...niece is still on life support, right?" He says, feeling his way through the faded, uncomfortable memory of Maggie hunched alone at the bar and drawing on a napkin.

"Yes. He didn't want to come."

Jackson sits up a little and looks over the crowd. It takes a few moments to sort out the shifting heads, but he catches Amelia and Link the next two rows over and behind. They're leaning in and muttering to themselves. He's stared too long (he has no concept of time anymore-), because they both lean up and lock eyes. Link grins and waves. Amelia crinkles her nose. Jackson nods, curtly, and turns back around before he can take it to heart. ...Baby steps.

"Auntie Amy!" Harriet squeaks. Amelia's face immediately lights up, waving eagerly and nearly smacking Link in the head. "I got a _keychain!_ "

Jackson smiles to himself when both of them smile exaggeratedly and hold up theirs. Today's not about him. This is good.

"Richard, Alex and Jo couldn't make it, so I'm having Jonathan record." Catherine continues, nodding over to the door. Sure enough, the family driver is standing firm to attention, holding out his phone above eye-level and adjusting it minutely. He waves at him. Jackson waves back. "Still. He should've at least swung by for the keychains."

"Well. It might be a little tough, seeing someone he loves barely hanging on because of a heart problem and going to a heart convention." Jackson murmurs. "After the shooting there was an elevator in the hospital I couldn't use."

"Oh, I absolutely have no doubt grief is a factor. I saw it on _full_ display back at Pac North." She tucks her gloss away and lifts her head, expression thoroughly cold. He finds out why immediately. "He also blamed her for the reason his daughter was dying, even though she had continuously avoided getting check-ups until she was in a critical stage. Then he blamed her for putting her on life support and hasn't talked to any of us, Richard included, since."

Jackson frowns _hard_.

"...That's not fair." The irony of it all isn't lost on him. Jackson rubs his face and sighs, the guilt knotting tight with righteous anger and the neverending whiplash of all he's missed. "...Shit."

' _God, if you're listening..._ ' He thinks, looking up with the rest of the crowd when an older man in a BPM Plus t-shirt walks onto the stage. ' _Please start going easy on her, okay? Do whatever you want to me, but she deserves a break._ '

"Thank you everyone for showing out today. The weather may not be cooperating, but scientists are nothing if not experts at beating the odds." The crowd mutters and shuffles their assent at that last part. Judging by the his affect, he's probably a professor from the university across the street. "Today we're going to take a look at some of the biggest medical advances of the new year, starting with a presentation from our homegrown heart tech center BPM Plus. To kick things off, I want you all to _please_ give a warm welcome to the woman who is making it all possible, Seattle's very own Dr. Margaret Pierce from Grey-Sloan Memorial!"

The crowd bursts into applause (Link standing up and doing that circle clap thing). Jackson claps as hard as he can with his daughter in his lap, which she mimics with gusto.

"Hey, everyone."

Harriet coos, trying to wave her flashlight (and being gently distracted by his mother). He knows he should probably urge her to put it away and be polite, but his eyes can't leave the stage. Maggie...looks _incredible_. Her hair is half-up and half-down, fluffing around her chin with a few coils popping out. She's wearing BPM Plus merch, a big, chunky sweatshirt with a faded ink drawing of a heart on the front. Straight out of a boutique. There's a heavy _thump_ when she taps the mic, and he feels something similar in his chest.

"Wow. This is...an _amazing_ turn-out." She laughs, a little nervously, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear as she scans the crowd. "Thank you all so _much_ for being here. It really means..."

She trails to a stop when she sees him.

"...a lot."

Fitting for the presentation his heart feels like it's going to punch through his ribs and make a mess on the floor. Jackson takes in a deep, slow breath, trying to filter his smile into something elegant. Maggie blinks, slowly...then _grins_ from ear-to-ear. She looks back down to her notes and fiddles with her hair again.

"...Rechargeable hearts." She looks up at the crowd. "They weren't thought to be possible before. Heart transplants, sure. Pacemakers, definitely. An entirely manufactured heart with the ability to charge itself and mimic flesh and blood, though? I have my...my mother to thank for that, because I was never taught to believe in impossible. Believe in obstacles, yes. Hurdles as _far_ as the eye can see and more inconveniences than you can shake a brachiocephalic artery at." She's visibly delighted when she gets a few chuckles from the audience. "But impossible is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it's not what got us _here_."

Jackson swallows hard. It's a bold detail to put in there, her mother, and so _soon_. Oh, but is she in her element. This may be a convention for several medical advances, but as far as he was concerned, this was _her_ show.

"While I appreciate being given so much credit concerning this amazing new feat of technology, I'm just one vein in the system. BPM Plus has been working _tirelessly_ with today's best engineers and scientists to create working rechargeable hearts for the mass market in the next five years. Then, of course, our human trial volunteers. Our patient and her parents weren't able to make it here, unfortunately." Maggie's grip on her notes visibly tightens. "We're...trying to monitor her as carefully as possible due to her weak heart, but I'll make sure she knows you were all here rooting for her."

Then she pauses. ...For far too long. Jackson's smile fades. The expression on her face is...familiar. He saw something like that at the bar, after Meredith's hearing. He's seen it somewhere else, too, but he can't put his finger on it. Is she panicking? It _can't_ be the speech. She's done too many to succumb to stage fright.

"These hearts are going to not just save lives, but...change them." She pauses, looking down at the notes in her hand. Her chest starts to bounce with shaky breaths. "Um."

Jackson's eyes widen. ... _Um?_ That's not good. His ears catch the awkward shuffle of seats behind him. Someone mutters under their breath. He sits up and leans forward, inwardly begging Maggie will look his way and see how much he believes in her. She doesn't. She's staring at the paper in her hand like she's begging them for an answer.

" _Oh_ , uh. I was told if anyone would like to ask me questions, now's the time." She smiles, a little too wide. "Does anyone have anything they'd like to ask me before the trade shows start?"

A young woman raises her hands. A student, likely. Maggie points at her.

"When will the first rechargeable heart be installed?"

Now he knows where he's seen that look. It was when they were eating Western Roth's winter stew in his room. He'd said something encouraging, and a part of her had shut down.

"As...as soon as I can. _We_ can. As soon as _we_ can." She pats the note bundle on the little wooden stand and makes the mic whine with more feedback. "Um, anyone else?"

More hands shoot up. Harriet raises hers. Jackson ruffles her hair, idly, watching Maggie with growing trepidation.

"How do you recharge the hearts through the skin?"

"It's a work-in-progress, we're...we can charge it, it's a full charge we're still figuring out..."

"Can a patient still get cardiac arrest with a rechargeable heart?"

"We..." She clears her throat and nods. "We're monitoring for..." She trails off. "For..."

Then Maggie turns and walks right off the stage.

"Oh my _goodness_." Catherine whispers, the only sign she's shocked with her hands still carefully folded in her lap. Jackson can barely catch the flap of her curly hair before she's off the stage and out of sight. A mutter raises like steam from the crowd, craning their heads (and some standing) to see where she ran off to. Oh, no. Oh, _no_.

"...I'll get her." He says, when his head connects to his feet, and gently sidles Harriet off his lap. "Stay here, sweetheart. I'll be back."

When runs outside he's gone. Her car (or, rather, the sisterhood's car-) is, too. Jackson holds his head with both hands, heart sinking with the speed of a stone through water. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. Catherine comes out to see him not a moment later, her coat on and scarf hastily wrapped, Harriet by her side and Amelia and Link trail after.

"I'll go talk to her, see if I can't get her back and come up with an excuse-" Jackson says, hastily, buttoning up his coat and tugging up his collar. "She just got cold feet. Maybe we can pass it off as a stomach bug."

Harriet drops her keychain to the ground and starts to cry. Jackson blinks, crouches down to her level and takes her shoulders with both hands.

"Hey, hey, sweetheart, what's wrong-"

"No, _no_ , I want you to stay." She stomps her foot. "You're always gone."

"I know, you're right, I am..." He tries, weakly, then looks up when Link steps forward.

"It's okay. We'll go get Maggie." He assures. It doesn't help at all. "Thank you for coming, though, that definitely meant a lot to her-"

"I can _see_ her." Jackson hisses, too sharply (desperately). Link looks visibly taken aback. "Just _give_ me a moment."

"You saw her plenty of times at the hospital." Amelia says, evenly, rocking her daughter when she starts to fuss. ...Holy shit. That's her _daughter_. "I think you're a little soon on 'I want to see Maggie' tokens."

An awkward silence follows, interspersed with Harriet's occasional hiccups. Link coughs behind one hand, reaching out to put a hand on her back.

"We better get going."

...Goddammit. Jackson picks up Harriet and holds her to his chest and staring at the tiny new life in Amelia's arms. Catherine moves over to stand next to him.

"We should."

For once he's grateful for her intervention. Jackson parts without so much as a farewell, pushing aside the burn in his chest to focus on the weight of his daughter on his hip. He can hear the rest of the convention starting to hustle and bustle through the walls, but Maggie's gone, and with her his will to stay. Jonathan drives them to the family house, though not before stopping by the store to buy some baking ingredients and frosting. It's not how he thought the day would turn out, but that's life. He's just getting back into the mix.

Catherine offers him scotch, which he refuses. Frank offers him dinner, but his appetite is shot, and he contends himself with nibbling on crackers. They talk about minor things, when they talk at all, Harriet always filling in the space with sing-song or questions. It's his second home, but he can't engage with it too much or he'll lose what shred of calm he's held onto all day. Maggie sends him a text while they're carving out the cookies for the baking sheet.

_I don't think I can meet up with you tonight, Jackson, I'm so sorry, Maggie, 6:10 p.m._

Jackson leans his hip against the counter and blows out a sigh of relief, nearly getting frosting in his beard when he rubs his face. Oh, thank _God_.

_maggie, are you okay? where are you?, Jackson, 6:11 p.m._

_at home, Maggie, 6:15 p.m._

What should he say? That it's no big deal that she ran off-stage during one of the biggest presentations of her medical career? He'd be a literal God-damned hypocrite if he did, not when he had to retreat to the men's room at the mere thought of an undergraduate recognizing him. He needs to say _something_ , though, because...it's not the end of the world. It's taken him months to realize it, and therapy and sob sessions and fainting spells, but it's not.

_my daughter was upset I was gone so long and I dont want to leave her like that, be there as soon as I can, Jackson, 6:17 p.m._

_No, I mean it, it's okay. Don't worry about it, it didn't really go anywhere. Harriet comes first, always, Maggie, 6:19 p.m._

_no, I'll be there, I want to hear about it, Jackson, 6:19 p.m._

One way or another, irony was set on becoming his shadow. He'd chewed her out at his apartment for always running when the going got tough. For seeing the end of a relationship before it'd even had a chance to flower in the sun. Here he was, patching things up after being the one to end it. Jackson Avery, a Greek tragedy down to the punctuation. She doesn't say anything else, not after the cookies are done baking and not in the middle of watching Moana (with an increasingly sleepy Harriet). The whole time, he can't quite shake the feeling something's not quite right.

_harriet's asleep now, i'm coming over, okay? see you soon, Jackson, 7:15 p.m._

He puts his daughter to bed for the first time in far too long and gives his mother a hug, against his better instincts. She lets him use her foundation and helps him dab it on in the bathroom when his hands shake too much. Jackson buttons up his coat, picks up his flowers and calls for a ride.

***

"Y-You sure?!"

Jackson checks his watch. He's got a few hours left. He waves the driver off when he tries to return the Benjamin.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure. Thanks for playing some Michael for me." The guy accepts his fist bump with a grin. "I needed that."

He's on a time limit, but his feet don't budge when the Lyft pulls away from the curb and leaves him alone on the curb. The sisterhouse is a place he's been to more times than he can count. This is just another visit. Jackson taps two shaking knuckles on the door, then hyperfocuses on the feel of the snow on his knuckles. When the door swings open, several seconds sooner than the worst-case scenario in his head, all he can do is stare.

"...Oh." Maggie pushes curls out of her eyes, only for them to fall right over again. "Hey."

The relief damn near makes him sway. She looks fine, if worn out and attempting to bluff through it with a faux-casual expression that's not fooling anyone. Her BPM Plus sweatshirt is gone, replaced with a gray knitted sweater long enough to brush her knees. He's not sure what he was expecting. She's not nearly as fucked in the head as he is.

"...Hey." He starts, haltingly. "Um. Congratulations on..." Oh, damn. That's the worst way he could've started. "Um, I got you flowers..."

The roses have held up nicely thanks to the wrapping, if a little squished when Harriet begged to touch them. Maggie blinks owlishly at the bouquet in his hands, and he's pretty sure his heart has been replaced with a paddleball.

"...Not...really much to congratulate me over, but thanks." That's the furthest thing from the truth, but she takes the flowers before he can continue. "Thank you. These are really nice..." She sniffs them. "Roses grow in winter?"

"Greenhouse." He says, lamely.

Maggie nods, not looking at him. Jackson reaches up to rub snow out of his hair, then rubs at his beard. They both stand in awkward silence magnified by the utter nothing of the neighborhood's silence. ...Maybe he should've nixed the flowers. She looks less happy and more like she wants to crawl into a hole and pull the lid over her head.

"Um. Come in, come in. It's cold..."

Jackson steps inside and shuts the door behind him. The panic ebbs and, with it, a whisper. It scared him so badly back at Grey-Sloan when too many voices clamored. Now he listens. What he thought were his demons coming back to haunt him were angels trying to help him.

_Sometimes we forget all that matters is people. Whether we walk away leaving them better or worse for having met us. We control that, Avery._

It's brilliantly warm inside. A fire is crackling in the living room, the only glow aside from the kitchen light. Jackson shrugs off his jacket, trembling from more than just the heat as he kicks snow off his boots and stares at the stretch of wood down the foyer. He's exhausted, emotionally and physically, and his damn eye won't stop twitching. He's not too exhausted for this, though. He considers the steps he took in this exact same spot all those many months back. A return to a beautiful thing always at his fingertips, after a fun party that quickly went south in too many ways to count.

Another voice echoes. Not Mark's, Lexie's or Christina's, but his own.

_Have some wine...a lot of wine...and walk you up to the porch._

He's hit with another wave of relief: nobody else seems to be home, judging by the shoe rack and the lights turned off upstairs. The feeling doesn't last long. Jackson's chest sinks as he takes in the sight of the empty wine bottle and empty glass on the kitchen counter. ...It's the cabernet sauvignon he sent her. She's been drinking a lot lately. Back at the hotel bar after Meredith's hearing, Hell, back when they were still together and destressing after work. He hadn't thought much of it -- wine's even healthy, to a degree -- but _this?_ This is too much.

Maybe if he'd stuck around...he would've clued in on her alcoholic spiral sooner.

" _Why don't we just leave this here and I'll get you home?_ "

" _But I need it_."

" _Maggie, I'm sure you have some wine at home, too, okay? Come on._ "

Maggie's voice chirps through his thoughts, followed by the clinking of dishes.

"I don't know...if we have a vase. Probably, but I don't know where it is." She grabs a cup out of the cupboard and fills it with water, then takes the flowers. "This should work-"

"Uh, Maggie-" He starts, right before weight distribution does its thing and sends the flowers, cup and water spilling all over the floor. Maggie gasps, hands flying to her mouth.

"Oh, oh, _shoot_ , I am _so sorry-_ "

"It's fine, it's fine, hold on-"

Jackson snags a rag off the kitchen rack and dives down to mop it up. Today was really getting its kicks.

"How'd the, uh..." He starts, double-checking for spots, then winces. "I mean, _how's_ , rather, since it's still going...is everything all right at Grey-Sloan?"

When he stands Maggie takes his hand and gives it a tug. His following thoughts sputter out like a pinched candle.

"Come on. Let's dance. Meredith's not here, so you gotta fill in the gap."

...Okay. He can do that. Jackson lets her lead him into the dining room, trying not to think about how warm her hand is.

_I want you to promise me something. If you love someone, you'll tell them. Even if you're scared if it's not the right thing. Even if you're scared it'll cause problems. Even if you're scared that it'll burn your life to the ground, you say it and you say it loud._

"Alexa, play a dance tune."

Whitney Houston promptly comes on. 'I Wanna Dance With Somebody'. It's a good pick. Maggie starts bouncing, less like someone at a club and more like someone on a trampoline, but it's so damn cute and ridiculous he can't help but chuckle. She's not having it, though.

"Come _onnn_." She huffs, spinning around in place and making her hair fan out. "Dance with me. Today sucked and I want to get it off my mind."

"Okay."

_Then you go from there._

The last time he danced with someone else he thought he was having a son, but he can push that aside for now. For her. Jackson starts a basic side-to-side shuffle, enjoying the way Maggie's smile goes from bright to glowing. She waves her arms, shakes her hair into a cloud, spins around in another circle. He does the sprinkler, just to see her sputter a laugh and cover her eyes. Then, just as he's trying to remember the proper stance for the disco, Maggie trips over her feet and falls over. ...Right by the _fire_.

_**Fuck!** _

Jackson lunges forward, but there's no need. Maggie's slapped a last-minute hand on the wall and caught herself in time.

"...Oops." She says, simply, and he's not sure his heart can't take much more of this. "Let me try that again."

Looks like the wine is starting to hit. His doctor's instinct is telling him more movement is a _very_ bad idea. When she starts up another flail session Jackson promptly stops her with two hands on her shoulders.

"...Here." He pulls her in closer (and as far away from the fire as possible). "Let's try this. Alexa? Play a slow dance song."

She starts up a soul piece he's never heard before. Today wasn't going easy on either of them. Maggie holds onto his shoulders like she's still trying not to fall, staring past him (and trembling, just a little). Jackson counters and moves his hands down to rest on her waist, humming to the song as best he can under his breath and watching the roaring fire over her curls. Okay. He... _might_ not have thought this through. Now that they're this close she smells like wine and a little perfume, which he's not sure he's ever smelled on her and is making him second-guess his ability to breathe correctly.

"...So...how's Harriet doing...?" She asks, softly, when the song drifts into a solo and swaths them in ambiance.

"Good. Really good. She's...so happy." Jackson smiles, helplessly. "So full of energy. Hard to believe I was ever that young. She kept talking about this presentation she's doing all night, for, uh, Tasmanian devils? No, Tasmanian tigers. She did this _amazing_ poster of a..."

His words trickle to nothing when Maggie's expression wilts. ...God. _God!_ What the hell is wrong with him? He could have mentioned literally _anything_ else. Jackson hastily looks past her shoulder, wracking his brain for a follow-up. Come on, something, something-

"She also headbutted me in the crotch."

Maggie blinks.

"Wait, _what-_ "

"Yeah, she really wanted to show me her new toy and tripped trying to jump onto the couch." Jackson bites his lip, trying to feign dignity and completely failing. "Had to sit down for a few minutes and wait for the stars to go away. Mom asked me, and I quote, 'if I'd like a consultation later'."

"Oh, she did _not_." Maggie slaps a hand over her face, cackling. "I'd say I'm sorry for you, but that's like something out of a bad comedy."

Pretty much. His life's been veering toward the sort, so it makes sense in a cosmic sort of way. Jackson doesn't air out the sentiment, though. Not when the sound of Maggie's laughter revives him like nothing else. He watches the firelight play on her skin, a shivering gold that travels up her neck and glitters through her hair. Maggie sways in his arms, their movement out-of-sync to the music and entirely, utterly carefree.

"You didn't jog in the below-freezing weather today, did you?" She asks. He huffs.

"Not today, no."

Her head starts to bob with the weight of someone finally becoming a little drunk.

"...You hate me, huh?"

Jackson slowly closes his eyes.

"...I don't hate you." He opens them again. "I've never hated you."

Maggie still sways. Her smile sways, too, as multicolored as the roses. Sweet. Sad. Lonely.

"You said we were...broken. I keep trying to fix what's broken."

It's not denial. It's not an accusation. It's a plea for mercy from someone who's taken too many hits in too little time. Jackson shifts a little so he can better knit his hands around her waist, rubbing a thumb along the curve of her back.

"...I'll never forgive myself for what I did to you and I've made my peace with that. You have to forgive yourself, though. I can't let you place all this blame on your shoulders. Not when you tried your best."

That almost does it. Her eyes glitter with the unshed and unsaid (so dark and sweet, he's falling just like the first time-). Jackson watches her shake her head and sniff.

"That's not...that's not what I'm saying. I-I mean...maybe a little, maybe it still...still hurts, but also, you were...sick. Really, _really_ sick. I got mad at you for being sick. You're not...you're not bad. You're not cruel or ugly. Okay?" She leans forward and tries to capture his gaze again. "Do you understand?"

Jackson's mouth trembles. He shuts his eyes, throat working fitfully.

"Mm-hmm." He gulps down the protests. Blinks back the internal loathing. "I do. I hear you."

Maggie reaches up to cradle his face in his hands, and every bone in his body aches. He didn't realize he needed her to say that until it happened, then to _do_ that until it happened, and now he's addicted. Jackson leans into her touch, the heat in his eyes sinking straight down into his stomach and spreading warmth from head-to-toe. Oh, _God_ , he _missed_ this. He missed when she made him feel like someone, so easily. All this time, and she's never forgotten. Maggie butts her forehead against his, a rough little clunk, and he loves it. Every blessed, perfect second.

"I just keep expecting...all the broken pieces to come together all...perfect...and stuff. That's not how it works. I'm trying to fix things...the wrong way." Her face slides down to nestle in the side of his neck. "You smell nice."

Jackson's chuckle is a throaty crackle harsh enough to rival the fire. It almost makes him glad she's too drunk to notice.

"Thanks. You do, too."

Maggie's hands slide up the back of his neck, toying with his curls, rippling little down his spine with each affectionate pluck.

"It's Amelia's. I might start buying some, though I can't wear any at the hospital..."

As if possessed Jackson pushes his nose into her neck, the warmth pushing through the leftover chill on his face light up his lungs. His beard is still long enough to tickle, because she squirms, but not away. Maggie moves closer, skin bunching up, shivering and soft and real. He wants to do more than breathe her in. Suck and nibble until she's all he can smell, taste or hear. Not tonight, though. Not with her barely holding herself together between one drink and the next. He holds his tongue, literally and figuratively.

"...You want to talk about what happened on that stage?" He whispers. Maggie clutches him a little tighter. There's no music now, but she still rocks them both from side-to-side.

"...Maybe later. I can't tonight."

"Okay. But I'm going to hold you to that. You need to talk about what you're going through. Bottling it up doesn't work." He chuckles. "Trust me."

"You know I'll just end up arguing with you." She mumbles against the shell of his ear. "A lot."

"Hm?" Jackson turns his head a little, not so much that her fluffy hair isn't still blacking out the world. "About what?"

"Everything."

"That's what doctors do. We pro and con and weigh and measure to find the best option." He lowers his voice. "You're not as argumentative as _some_ people I know."

"That's a low bar, Jackson."

"Still."

She seems to accept this well enough, eyes drifting off on another thought train, and he knows this look, too.

"I get so scared. I get so scared I'll wake up and you'll be gone again. Gone for any reason, it doesn't matter. I'm scared. I've lost you again and again and...what if I lose you for good? What if you come back, right here and...and holding me like we used to, when it was good, and cooking with me and poring over diagrams with me, and I lose you...and I can't get you back. ...I'm _scared_ , Jackson."

She had no reason not to be. He moves a hand away from her waist, scratches at his jaw and tries to think of something to say, something hopeful. Maggie frowns.

"Why do you do that?"

Jackson stiffens.

"Tactile...hallucination." He pulls his hand away. "When I'm stressed or panicking. I've been talking about it with my therapist."

Maggie stares at him in silence. ...He doesn't like the way she's looking at him. Studying, but nervous, but confused, but a trillion other things. It could just be the alcohol. It might not be. Jackson shifts self-consciously.

"Do I scare you?"

"A little." His heart _hurts_ at that, and she follows up, hastily. "No, no. Not like that. Not like...like I'm scared _of_ you but...I'm scared _for_ you. For us. I..."

He thinks he understands. It's not unlike the fear he has knowing his mother will always have that cancer in her spine, on top of age and the stress of being a black woman in America. It's a similar fear he has every time Harriet is out of his sight, even though he knows April would never let anything happen to her while she was breathing. The waking nightmare of his ex-wife's pale face on the hospital bed. Maggie had been the one to give her back. Maggie has always given him second chances. The thought strikes him so hard he knows it shows on his face. Her eyes are on his collar, though. Fixated on not much, as someone so drunk can be.

The question feels like chewing needles, but...he has to ask.

"...Do you want me to go?"

"No." She says, immediately, and grips his shirt. "Please stay."

For a minute he fantasizes about skipping out on the ward. Staying with her, making her coffee in the morning, helping detangle her hair while listening to the radio, then going to see his daughter, spending all day with Maggie nursing the hangover with a movie or three. He can't. He was many things, but leaving a job unfinished was a habit he never learned.

"I can't stay here all night. I have to go back to the ward at ten. I can stay here for another..." He looks over his shoulder at the kitchen clock, then back. "...two and a half hours, though. That okay with you?"

His heart pounds when Maggie runs slow fingertips along his jawline (right where the patch is growing back), then along his cheek (where the scratch marks are starting to fade). Her eyes glisten in the low light. Staring at him in... _that_ way. The way that made it all make sense.

"Okay."

Jackson nods, reaching up to run a thumb along her cheek.

"Okay."

Then she kisses him.

Sometimes things feel so good they hurt. These blurry, long months have hurt, so much, and for a few seconds he has to reason with the muscle memory, the stubborn trauma and the lingering mistakes. The wisdom sinks into him like too much bourbon, heavy and hot. Everything is heat. Voices. Memories...

"Maggie-" He starts...

...but nothing follows, because she's too _warm_. Too _good_. She kisses like he's the wine and she's drinking him up, gripping his face in both hands again, and he's never wanted to drown more. Her tongue slips past his lips, cherry sweet, his stomach drops to his knees and his nails dig into waist and he _wants_ this. He wants it more than _anything_ he can think of...

...and he can't. Not like this. Jackson holds onto her lip for one eternal second longer, then pulls back. Maggie tries to follow, bumping their noses together, pawing at his shirt for balance. He turns his face away, mumbles a negative, still holding onto her with a firm grip to try and make it as clear as possible through her drunken haze that it's not her. It's not her, it never was _her_. It was just him, and the festering remains of his damage, making everyone sick and saving the worst for last.

"...We can't." Jackson says, and feels his heart wither to pieces when Maggie's face just _crumples_. 

"...Fine. Get _out_."

Jackson goes cold.

"W-What?"

"You _always_ do this." She looks like she's about to cry again, and- "You always do this, always here, with the, with the wine and the couch and-" She flaps a hand. "-big dramatic speeches-"

"Wait, no, no, no, Maggie. Listen to me." He holds onto her with one hand, tries to pet her cheek with the other. She tugs away. "Maggie. Maggie. Hey. You're drunk."

"No, I'm _not-_ " She yanks again, clumsily, and stumbles unevenly. "Let _go-_ "

Jackson can feel his own composure turning fragile. He lets go, only to swiftly take her face in both hands and murmur her name until she stops squirming.

"I want to kiss you. I want it... _so_ badly." He reaches down and pulls her hand up to his cheek, nuzzles her knuckles (so much softer than he remembers). Maggie stops struggling and stares. "You're drunk right now, though. You need to rest first. Okay?"

"I...I am...kind of tired." She blinks, blearily. "How much...did I drink?"

"Enough for the whole after-party." Still holding her hand he pets her cheek with the backs of his fingers, heart sinking with dizzying relief. "Want to go lay down?"

"Um." She yawns, hard enough her jaw pops, then presses the heel of her palm into her eyes. "... _Yeeeah_."

Then she moves that hand to her mouth and puffs up her cheeks- _okay_. Time to move. Jackson puts a careful hand on the low of her back and steers her to the sink. When she just manages a few dry heaves, he nudges her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. When she gets in her room it's all she can do to collapse on the bed. Maggie watches him in a crooked Z, legs curled on one side and head to the other. She holds out a hand. Jackson drifts over, because nothing in the world could stop him when she does that. He kicks off his shoes, then slides beside her.

The minutes spin a slow dance as they lay side-by-side, hand-in-hand. The adrenaline of the day has cooled down, and he's weary in an entirely new way. Her voice is as soft as snow on snow.

"Jackson?"

"Hm?"

Maggie's gaze is coffee on a spring morning. She rolls a thumb over his knuckles.

"I'm sorry I spilled your flowers."

"It's okay."

She goes silent for a few minutes. The house creaks beneath a fresh wave of wind outside.

"...Jackson?"

"...Hm?"

"I'm really glad you came."

...Anytime.

"Anytime." He whispers.

It's still too soon for promises. He sees the whisper of doubt still in Maggie's eyes, however dampened by alcohol and the misses of the day. She doesn't say anything else, rolling onto one side to press into his chest. His eyes grow hot. God, he's been crying a lot lately. It's to the point a penny could drop and he'd fill a bathtub with it. Jackson stays carefully still as Maggie situates herself, her knees knocking against his and one arm snaking up clumsily to curl between their bodies.

"Good?" He asks, heart pinching when she lets out a long, tired sigh into his collarbone.

" _Mm-hmmmm_."

He just wants to close his eyes and hold her all night. If he closes his eyes, even for a minute, he won't leave, and he knows it. Jackson buries his nose in her hair, stares at the corner of bed between the wall and bedside table, and breathes. Breathes in deeper than he has in a hidden lifetime behind closed doors. She's a glass of cold water past midnight. He loses himself to the hypnotic pattern. A kiss on her eyebrow. Breathe in. A kiss on her hair. Breathe out. A kiss on her forehead. Breathe. Kiss. _Breathe_.

The urge to nibble love into her skin trembles through him again. A worse itch than the pain what crawls through his jawline during the worst hours (further away than it was, still too close for complacency). Not now. Not yet. Not even maybe. It's perhaps. A loving, heavy perhaps that will haunt him until he's good, set to the scent of wine and the low, weary breath of a tired soul. It's a ridiculous thing to do, when even God's thoughts on the matter come second to hers, but...he prays. Prays that someday...he _could_.

"Make sure you take it easy tomorrow, Maggie. It may not feel like it right now, but today wasn't the failure it felt like." He tells her. When she doesn't respond he leans up a little. "Maggie?" Oh. She's fast asleep, face nestled into the fold of her hands. "...Okay."

He'll tell her later. Soon. Despite his best efforts he almost falls asleep, anyway, the barely maintained slit between his lashes too dark and blurry to be called 'awake'. He jolts to wakefulness, though, when the bedroom door creaks open, warm air swirling anew. Before he can comfortably shift up and look over his shoulder without waking Maggie, they're gone. He sighs and lays his head back down on the pillow, watching the slow rise and fall of her shoulders.

...Time to go.

Jackson looks around for a spare blanket. He finds one in the closet, high up with some leftover moving boxes. With a flick of both wrists he settles it over Maggie, right up to her ears, then goes into the bathroom. There's a little cup next to the toothbrushes, probably for rinsing; it's a few passes under the hot water before he gets the stale mint smell out, but once he's done he fills it with water and grabs the Tylenol in the medicine cabinet. He also grabs a scrunchie. He sets both on the bedside table, piles her hair up into an overnight pineapple, then heads downstairs.

A similar urge to creep in the shadows, part a generic passing word and vanish into the night overwhelms him. He can't do that. If he's part of her life, he's living it all the way. The sight of Alex and Jo has him freezing in place. They look good. Tired, as they only can be after watching the kids, but happy. Alex is the scruffiest he's ever seen him, such a contrast his brain skips between the pediatric doctor he worked alongside at Grey-Sloan. Jackson shuffles uneasily to the coat rack. The cracks in his mind may be finally starting to knit together, but religion and madness still has him doubting his reality more often than not.

"...Oh." Jo says, minding her step as she heads upstairs with Bailey and Ellis in her arms. "Hey, Jackson."

"...Hey." He turns to Alex. "Um...go easy on Maggie when she wakes up. I don't think she meant to get this drunk. She was already feeling bad for having you watch the kids and...she's going to blame herself when she wakes up. Um, I already put some Tylenol and a bottle of water by the bed. I was going to look for some crackers or bread, too...to help it go down. You can do that, though, if you want."

Alex slowly turns and stares at him. He looks more angry now than the beginning of their residency, where he'd tackled the man into a table during a party and cracked his jaw. They'd laughed it off, then. There's nothing of the sort now.

"...Oh, I've got _no_ problem with supporting her through a rough time."

Jackson slowly straightens up. Yeah. This part. Jo walks back down the stairs and starts unloading their bag, filled with toys and tupperware.

"I was there when her cousin had to be put on life support and she had to face down an extended family she just met that she didn't reach their expectations. Right, I was... _also_ there when she got so drunk she forgot where her car was and called me over by an Applebee's three blocks away." Alex isn't the type of man to bother with fake smiles. Just a nod and expression so flat the horizon could look crooked. "How's the ward?"

"...Good."

"Oh, yeah? What was your diagnosis? Acute headass?"

Jo shoots her husband a look. He doesn't acknowledge it. Jackson looks at the floor and starts buttoning up his coat.

"...That was an actual question, I need to know something to keep me from kicking you out onto the street."

"...PTSD." He says. "Depression."

"It's good you're going, Jackson." Jo says, kindly. "That's a really tough step, but it's good."

"Should've taken it sooner." Alex mutters. Jo scoffs.

"Alex, sometimes it's not that _simple_. Sometimes you don't even know you have a problem, much less need medical help."

"I'm not mad at him for being _sick_. I'm mad at him for taking Maggie down with him."

The man then crosses his arms and fixes him with a scowl he's seen many, many times in the halls of Grey-Sloan.

"What the _hell_ has been your problem? You used to be halfway decent for a rich pretty boy with the whole world on a silver platter. Everything I've heard has sounded like a parody of an Oprah Winfrey special, only with three less illegitimate children and no happy ending. You'll run to a burning bus to save a kid, but will drop a good woman on her fucking head, then pretend you don't see the bleeding." Alex hikes up a nostril. "Yeah, I heard about that stupid Instagram post and your 'thing' with a firefighter two whole weeks later. Prick."

Jo makes a face. The kind that says, ' _yeeeah, me, too_.' Jackson clenches and unclenches his fists in his coat pockets. That post will go down in history as one of his worst impulses.

"She really could've used your help with all this. Out of _all_ the times for you to..." Alex cuts himself off and shakes his head. "I love her. She's like a sister to me, as much as Meredith and Amelia. I so much as _dream_ about more bullshit from you and I'll be the one breaking _your_ jaw." He snatches his jacket, turns and yanks open the door. "Come on."

"...What?"

"You need a ride back, right?" He drawls. "They don't let patients keep their cars at wards and it's fucking freezing."

"It's a ways out there-"

"It's whatever. Let's go."

Jackson's throat clenches. He nods, wordlessly. Before he leaves, he writes a note. Not a long one, but something for Maggie to wake up to and set the record straight, at least, on his end. He sets it next to the roses, says good night to Jo and follows Alex to his car.

"Now that I've raked you over the coals, how'd it go?" He asks as he turns on the car. "The ward."

"I'm still going."

"Good." He flicks on the heater, fiddles with the dial. "Mental illness is a shit."

Jackson snorts. Alex snorts back. Just like that, somehow, they're on the same page again. About as tenuous and fragile as that proverbial page, but...the same one, nonetheless. It's more than he thought he'd get, and he's happy. ...He's happy. He's actually _happy_. He saw his daughter today, his jaw barely itched and Maggie has a support system many people could only _dream_ of. By the time they get to Western Roth he's a half hour late, but he feels no panic. He waves as Alex pulls out, then heads inside and goes to sign in at the front desk.

If he can rise up to that, well...he's truly done something special with his life.

* * *

_Hurt reminds you you're alive. Being alive isn't always so bad. How it isn't, well, you figure out as you go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song inspiration makes me so weepy. It's not even a sad song. It's just...vulnerable and supportive and tender and it just makes me crave what I used to have.
> 
> Heads up: I'm going to be adding a few tweaks here and there to the supplementary entries in this series, aka, the one-shots and two-shots. Writing the sequels _before_ the main story -- and updating constantly -- has the side-effect of coming up with plot bits, well, out-of-order. It's nothing _huge_ , they'll just be a few added sentences referencing events from this storyline. Basically, if you're in the mood for a reread, take solace that any changes you catch isn't just your memory getting fuzzy.
> 
> Also...peep that chapter count! I was waffling on whether or not to have this be eleven or twelve, and, according to my drafts, we're going for one more. Hope you like a little more soup with that soup!


	9. soar, our heart

**Song Inspiration:** "Fly Before You Fall" by Cynthia Erivo

*

_i hear you tumbling fast_

_here and now, you're afraid_

_don't you worry, i'll teach you to fly_

_before you fall_

_away_

* * *

_Bones support muscle. Skin lays over muscle. Hair grows from skin. The human body is truly an incredible network, an organic machine of complex parts working day in and day out without pause. Even in the modern age doctors, scientists and psychologists are still uncovering all the secrets it holds._

_Everything, from the tiniest cell to the largest organ, works in conjunction with one another to create a unified whole. Losing a little too much blood can overtax this network and shut down its higher processes. A single stray bacteria can put everything but bedrest on hold. Sure, there are people who are able to live without a kidney or a part of their brain. Some rare bodily anomalies can even create immunity to certain diseases. There are exceptions to every rule, but that doesn't change the fact there's a general rule._

_That no one element can do it all alone._

* * *

Western Roth is an institution of innovation, begetting it in both its structure and the patients it houses. His epiphany first hits in the game room, so staggering he temporarily forgets he's in the middle of fighting a monster with a television for a face.

" _Agh!_ Here, here, Dr. Avery, let me try." Rose says when he dies, groping for the controller. She grumbles when he holds it just out of reach. "I've played Undertale _five_ times, come on."

"And this is my _first_ playthrough. I got this, I got this."

The epiphany is nothing as grand as coming up with a last-minute detail to save someone's life. He just realizes that sculpting and gaming at a psychiatric ward might just be the most relaxed he's been in _years_ , and it wasn't him who asked for it in the first place. Even while watching the game with friends or getting wasted at a bar, he always had to be 'on'. Sparkling and smiling and somehow outdoing everyone, _some_ how, _some_ way. If he wasn't getting an off-hand retort about being 'perfect at everything', the whole day felt lacking. Here and now, surrounded by barely-adults debating tactics of overcoming bosses in an RPG, is it all truly sinking in the automatic pilot of his carefully planned world.

On second thought...maybe it _is_ a life-saving detail.

The encouraging mutters of his mini-audience fades to the back of his mind, the flow of dodging projectiles settling a comfortable blanket over his higher brain functions. Yes...it's truly something. What had originally just been a relaxing way to kill time in-between sessions has done so much work to stitch him into a human being. To help him be someone who could, sometimes, live for living's sake. Jackson grunts under his breath when he's told to _hold steady_ and _wait for the drop, wait for the drop_. It certainly hasn't hurt that the game has been a stellar example of his life thus far.

The healing power of kindness. The simplicity of determination. Forgiveness is, quite _literally_ , a gameplay mechanic that changes the story, an element that's fascinated him utterly and caused him to spend hours mulling over curled in his bed. The connection it's had with his own self-imposed hurdles is no mystery. He wonders what else he's missed on his way to being the shining beacon of the Avery Foundation. What he hasn't done. Hasn't read or felt.

It makes him wonder, way deep down...if _he_ could make something like this someday.

The thought strikes him dumb a second time, and he gets hit. _Damn!_ His audience lets out a collective groan. He has a few hit points left, but the tension in the room's reached a fever peak. Rose is practically begging to take over now, Taylor is close behind. Jackson assures them it won't happen again, watching the boss take on a new form (and the inevitable drag of the group's eyes back to the television). It's just a thought, though. He doesn't know the first thing about C++, but the idea has hit him like a spark, inspiration flickering bright in his mind after he dies (again). Still again when he calls it quits and ties on his running shoes.

Over the months his potential's been piling like the snow, Jackson thinks during his daily jog, heart racing and skin humming against the cold. It's been a slow drift that's slipped him by and left him to sort through it, his commitment an overdue plunge of his hands into the pile to root for the bottom. He waves at George when he shuffles by (studying the measurement of his cold breath before he vanishes past the treeline), then stops to take a long drink of water at the fountain. It has to be done, even when it gets messy. _Especially_ when it gets messy.

"You ever been in a messy relationship?" He asks Barnes when he gets back, pleasantly exhausted and enjoying his runner's high. The man hardly blinks over his cup of dark hot chocolate.

"Yes. I've been divorced three times. None of them were particularly pretty." Huh. It shouldn't be a surprising answer. His therapist was just as fallible as anyone else here, supernatural calm or no. Still. He clearly doesn't hide his surprise well, because Barnes gives him a wry smile. "The probability for divorce increases with each subsequent marriage. As high as 75% for a third, if I recall my statistics correctly. You can get used to just about anything."

"Why did you keep trying? _If_...that's all right for me to ask." He adds, quickly. Barnes slides a slow hand down his beard.

"Because...I was trying to fill in a gap I didn't know how to fill." He takes in a long, deep breath through his nose. For the first time since he's met him, he hears an ache in his voice. "Relationships had been a...form of catch-up for me, after my negligent parents and long, lonely career in the field of law. That approach was a weak foundation, one that led to dissatisfied party after dissatisfied party. It took me until the third divorce to realize I needed to figure me out. Therapy lead to traveling around the world. Traveling around the world lead to talking to people and learning just how much transcended nationality and language barriers. That, eventually, led me here."

"Wow. That's...really awesome." Jackson sips his hot chocolate and mulls it over. "Wish I could sound that noble with the relationships I've been in."

"You date who you know." Barnes chuckles at his expression. "Rather, you tend to _gravitate_ to what you know. How we're raised has a significant impact on who we befriend, who we date. My patients with very easygoing parents, for example, tended to crave that same hands-off approach in their partners. Myself included. Those with controlling or demanding parents, on the other hand, often felt mismatched with anyone who wasn't breathing down their neck all the time. You said you were...to quote your words a few sessions back...'kind of a slut'?"

" _Yeeeah_. I just wanted...it wasn't anything all that..." Jackson tries, then rubs the back of his head, deflating with all the dignity of a whoopee cushion. "...yeah."

"I'm not here to pass judgement on how you like to express yourself sexually. It lines up with your upbringing, honestly. Did it feel freeing, perhaps, to vent stress on a whim? Connect with people due to a very business-like family environment? Perhaps it could have even been a silent rebellion to date on-the-fly, since you said your family put great emphasis on connections and ambition in prospective partners."

Jackson blinks, slowly, watching the proverbial snow of his thoughts pile up before him. Yeah. That makes... _perfect_ sense. Relationships had been certainly been fun, especially when he signed up at the virtual soap opera of Grey-Sloan. It was a _fantastic_ source of stress relief, and cut into the loneliness he couldn't quite shake at parties. Then, once he _finally_ decided to give settling down a shot, his life had turned into the April show, from before they'd gotten together and well after they divorced. At best he'd been a minor character in her story, delegated to supporting her, only to fall into obscurity when the spotlight shifted.

Just like his mother. Just like his grandfather. Just like...so _many_. Barnes is visibly curious as he shares, pouring him a second refill of the hot chocolate (another epiphany in a cup and something he plans on buying more of).

"Interesting. I've noticed you don't talk about your ex-wife much." He notes, offering a little bag of marshmallows. Jackson waves a polite hand. The man plunks a few into his cup and stirs them around. "I suspected this."

"Yeah. Ha. Never could set a boundary with her. There was always some... _excuse_ or criticism when I did. Like, she came back from her soul-searching trip halfway across the world with an unknown rash and had to be quarantined, right? After all those months I didn't want to talk to her, not beyond anything medical. Told her as much. She called 911 while I was in the middle of a surgery just so she could _rant_ at me." He leans against his knees and rubs at his face. "Wouldn't leave my apartment, either. Said she'd get a crowbar when I said I'd change the locks. God, the whole thing was a _mess_."

His therapist stops stirring and goes dead silent.

"...That sounds like abuse, Jackson."

Jackson slowly raises his head from his hand.

"...What?"

It's an icicle straight through his chest when Barnes just sips his drink, then reaches down and quietly pulls out another book from his desk. It's difficult to tell what hurts more: the feeling that he always knew or that, once upon a time, he _really_ thought the trade-off of a happy marriage was worth the mistreatment.

"...Yes. No spouse should threaten retaliation when you establish boundaries. No matter how upset they are. They also shouldn't find ways _around_ a firm no, including behavior as unprofessional as a false 911 call in the hospital they work at. What you've described to me sounds like she was comfortable with emotional abuse. Had she done things like this before?"

"No. No, it wasn't anything _that_ bad, she..." The snow melts. "I mean...sometimes? She...she _left_ me, then made it out like I was being unreasonable when I needed her..." And melts. "She got angry at me sharing stories of my children with patients..." And melts. "She left me and was going to leave a second time." And melts. "She forced herself on me in a closet. I told her no." And melts. "She never apologized for anything."

The words sound like they're coming from another person. It's somehow both a bad and a good thing. Jackson hyperfocuses on his therapist's brown, weathered face and the sympathy curving his mouth.

"I think you should read that." Barnes says, then frowns softly when Jackson grips his jaw and shakes his head.

"Where does it fucking _end_." He whispers into his fingers. "It feels like my whole life has run off with me."

"Many people in your position have said the same thing." He replies, eternally gentle, and bobs the book when he doesn't take it. ' _A Light Through The Fog: How The Haze Of Emotional Abuse Works And How Healing Starts_ '. Jackson drags hands down his face and holds his mouth. If he touches it, it's true. It's real. His jaw twinges, plaintively, and the edges of his vision become a little more fuzzy.

"A journey isn't completed in a day. Read the first few chapters and give it a little more thought. At worst, you will have made an understandable mistake and there's no problem. At best, you might just learn something important to help you carve out a life closer to what you need. Please take it."

Baby steps. Jackson takes the book gingerly, letting it dangle from his fingers and tapping an anxious finger against his jawline. Barnes smiles.

"Now. Let's talk about something a little more positive. Anything you're looking forward to during your next off-site leave from the ward?"

It's all melting snow, right through his heart. Jackson slowly looks down at his hands, idly thumbing the scars on his knuckles.

"...I might be going on a date."

***

"Oh my gosh, _Zola!_ Look at you, you're doing _great!_ "

"Did you get that on video?"

"I got _all_ of it. Your mom's going to be so proud."

The song's over, but Zola does a few more spins and kicks, just because. Her peers squeak and clap, a circle of friends she's already made easily in her first few weeks. It's better than she could have ever hoped. The teacher promptly turns on ABBA's 'Dancing Queen' and tells the girls to shake out their muscles before their next session. Maggie hunkers over her crossed legs and watches her niece hop up and down with her new friends, pink tutus bobbing and bouncing like popcorn. Just like her, Meredith and Amelia. Shaking it all out when life threatened to get too heavy.

Her phone jars her out of it, as ominous as a clang of the bell.

"Be right back, Zola."

Maggie leans outside, despite the temperature immediately threatening to carve her into a five-foot four popsicle. It's been three days since the trade show. It's not the first time she's been contacted by BPM Plus, but it's the first time she's stopped pretending to always be too busy to pick up..

" _Pierce! Pierce, I've been trying to get ahold of you for days. Are you okay?_ "

This is exactly the part she feared. It's exactly why she didn't pick up. The one downside to her mother always encouraging her to live her life honestly was that she never learned how to lie. Adair's silence is her early punishment.

" _Wait, wait...you weren't sick? You walked off-stage because you were nervous? But...you got this. You got this. We've seen your work, the whole team has pored over it for **months**. The surgery is in less than two weeks._"

"It's...it's not that. I can do it, I _know_ I can. It's...just nerves. I think the whole 'huge never-been-done innovation' thing is finally sinking in, is all."

" _Okay. All right. But this isn't a good look, okay? Not just for your patients, but everyone else to follow. If you get those nerves in the future, it might be best to hold off on presentations, huh? Maybe ask someone else to fill in for you, if public speaking's not your thing._ "

"Right!" Maggie puts a fake smile on her face, so she can better put a fake smile in her voice. "That's a really good idea. I'm sorry, Adair. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

She walks back in side as Zola is trying to do a pirouette, stumbling on her toes every few seconds, yet getting right back to it without a hitch.

The deadline, and that single note of unease in her peer's voice, looms over everything she does the rest of the week. Uploading the video of Zola's ballet recital to her home computer. Starting spring cleaning early to fully usher in Cadence (with some much-needed help from Link, who has a supernatural eye for dust). It's not even the only deadline. The end of January is the return of her sister, too. Right alongside the return of her failure. Screwing up a trade show to screw up a rechargeable heart innovation: welcome home.

It's such a haunting thought she can hardly figure out what to make for dinner, staring at the kitchen cabinets and zoning out every time she reaches for a plate. When Zola walks into the kitchen she hugs her as tight as she can.

"You're being a soda can again." She says. "Let's go out for ice cream. I have my allowance in my purse."

"Don't grow up too fast." Maggie minds with a wag of her finger. "I'll order a pizza."

It's a decent enough distraction, for all of them. The kids enjoy their slices in front of a Dreamworks movie and give her a little time to mull on yet another troubling memory: what happened _after_ the trade show. Trying to remember that night has been like trying to walk through a hedgemaze backwards. Every answer she reaches is replaced with another question. Every good sensation she feels is swapped out with the memories he left her with. The coarse scrape of his beard beneath her fingertips. The vacant stare in the hospital parking lot. The supernatural softness of his voice in her hair. The glass shard nearly as long as her hand, winking red and blue.

She pulls Jackson's note out of her pocket and reads it for what _isn't_ the fiftieth time, because that'd be ridiculous and make no sense.

_heading back to the ward. you might want to take a day off to work off that hangover. in fact, take a few days off to focus on that stress. I know youve got a lot of work to do, but it's getting out of control, maggie. you're tired. you're anxious. take your warning signs earlier than I did and lean on someone. also, don't beat yourself up over last night. nothing happened. I mean, you kissed me, but other than that, nothing._

Her heart totally doesn't palpitate at _that_ , either (and it's probably-definitely the fact she hasn't drank enough water today).

_talk to me when you get the chance. my phone schedule is evenings and nights on weekends, before ten._

There's a tap on her leg. Bailey is squeaking for another slice of pizza. Maggie tries to hide her frown as she worries out a particularly sticky slice from the box. If she leans on him again...that means she'll risk collapsing if he leaves again. That can't be an option, because if she collapses, everyone will collapse with her.

***

"We want to cancel the surgery."

It's exactly what she was expecting to hear. Unfortunately, expecting a punch to the gut doesn't make the blow hurt any less.

"I'm _so_ sorry." Brett is nothing but apologies and shifting glances. He doesn't once look her in the eye. "We've been talking and talking about it, but we just..."

...don't trust her.

"Jade's tired of being cooped up on a promise of... _maybe_." Jason adds. He's stout, arms crossed over his broad chest, but his mouth trembles. "I can't see her like that anymore."

"I'm not sure what happened at the trade show, but...if you don't feel confident in giving our daughter this opportunity, we'd rather back out and go with a conventional heart treatment. Even if that means being on the waiting list and keeping her hooked up to a monitor. At least we'll know, for _sure_ , she's okay."

But Jade has huge dreams. She finally has a chance to _follow_ those huge dreams. She can _give_ her that chance.

"We'll still follow-up on physical therapy, if you're available." Brett offers, grabbing his coat. "She has a hard time admitting it, but...you're her favorite doctor."

The words are so hard to string together, though, and the two men are already grabbing their coats and picking up their bags. Maggie thinks she shakes their hands and says something hopeful for their daughter, but she doesn't quite remember when she sits in one of the waiting chairs and studies the texture of the wall.

Jackson had been faced with a similar conundrum, back when he was just as much a part of Grey-Sloan as the front sign. Rafi, that little boy with scapular osteochondroma who he met on his God quest. She'd just been visiting him for a short conversation when she'd accidentally given him the inspiration he needed to find a better route in the surgery. No lightning rod was going to strike her here. This was _her_ plunge, and now she was dealing with the fall. It'll hit in a few days, perhaps, or maybe a few weeks if she drowns herself in enough work.

For now, she's moving on with little more than a handshake and a well-wishing for Jade (who she wishes she could've seen just one more time). Her sister listens to it all with a shocking amount of calm over their (well, _her_ ) knitting session.

"We couldn't decide on pink or blue for her. Gender roles are stupid, anyway, so we went with a mixture." Amelia swells with pride when Cadence squirms and squeaks in her sleep. "Her whole room's going to be a lavender paradise. Anyway. It's just a trade show. By the time something else cool comes out, like Webber's fancy cancer pen, people are going to forget all about it. The real concern is Jade. It might be worth reaching out to her parents again, because I don't like her odds with another surgery."

"How...do you _always_ stay so down-to-earth?" Maggie huffs when she squirts too much moisturizer and dabs out the excess on her other leg. "Sometimes I think you're not sharing some big mystical secret. Whatever you know, spill it."

"Tch, I'm normally not. If I'm not holding out through another craving I'm ping-ponging between work. Cadence has sort of... _narrowed_ my focus down." Her sister claps both hands together. "So. There's the secret. Have a baby. Cadence needs a playmate about her size, anyway."

Maggie puffs out air. Fat chance of _that_. Life has her frizzy. How could she be a mother when she keeps nearly dropping the curveballs she's juggling? Children deserve the best, and after _this_...she wasn't ready to give her best.

"...He was really worried about you, you know."

"What?"

"Jackson. According to Alex he was doting on you like a mother hen after she show. I only _kind of_ want to punch him in the mouth now."

"We might be giving it another shot, so I'd probably come to terms with that urge." No, no, that's not right. Maggie fiddles with her fingers. "...We might be giving it another shot." It all hits her again, the failure and almosts and losses, and she sighs. "...Maybe."

Her heart twists when Amelia reaches out and squeezes her knee. She holds up one of the knitting needles and Maggie takes it, settling back into the rhythm of knit one, purl two as best she can. Maybe she's squandered her potential and everything she stands for, but she can at least make a blanket for a baby. The minutes go from crawling to racing by, her mind drifting off as she slowly, carefully, creates a little flower throw for her little niece's room.

"-Maggie?"

"Hm?" She looks up. "Oh, sorry. What's up?"

"Your phone's buzzing."

Maggie tugs out her phone. Missed call. She's about to check who when a message pops up.

_not sure if this is too soon to ask, but if youre free this weekend, would you want to go out?, Jackson, 6.51 p.m._

"Ooh, what is it?" Amelia tries to lean over Cadence without disturbing her. "Come on, let me see."

"Nothing. Honestly."

"You know whenever you say 'honestly' that means you're lying through your teeth, right?"

For now, it's her little secret. A tiny pocket of peace settles in the frantic back-and-forth of her thoughts. Maggie just hums and returns back to her blanket. She holds the message to her chest after Amelia goes to take a nap, deep-diving into study in the comfort of her room, (this time without wine and instead a tall glass of orange juice that's _technically_ for the kids). Then she does something she hasn't done in a long time.

She calls Jackson.

This isn't good. He normally picks up after the first ring. No. It's fine. He's probably busy. Maggie sighs gustily at the ceiling. A surefire sign of out-of-control nerves is when little things send her spinning. She gets up and starts to pace, gripping the phone so hard her hand starts to hurt. She begs for the goddess of contrived coincidences to toss her just _one_ more bone.

" _Hey_."

" _Jackson_." She breathes, or tries to. "...H-Hey."

" _Sorry I didn't pick up sooner, I was still in class_." His feed crackles a little, like he's getting comfortable. " _What's up?_ "

"I just...needed to hear your voice." She jiggles her arm, trying to remember basic conversation etiquette and coming up radically short. "Um. How's...class?"

" _It's great. I can't believe I didn't do this sooner. It's so similar to what I already did at the hospital, some of the tools even look the same. I finally figured out the perfect consistency, they kept telling me I made my clay too thick and it wouldn't bake evenly-_ " He stops, abruptly. " _...I'm rambling. It's good, is what I'm saying._ "

Maggie tucks her hand beneath her arm and smiles to herself. Gosh. He sounds...so happy.

" _Enough about me. What's going on with you?_ "

"Um. You said we could...we could maybe talk about what happened on stage? I _think_ you said that, anyway, I was really drunk and I'm pretty sure I don't remember half of-"

" _I did say that. I'm all ears_."

Maggie leans against the bedframe and stares out the window. Great. That's better than great. So...what the _hell_ does she say?

She's been teetering on the edge of absolute failure for so long she's forgotten what it's like to stand up straight. The pride she used to feel so acutely in Grey-Sloan is gone, replaced by this spindly, goopy mess. Perhaps a flub at a presentation isn't the worst thing that can happen in a world full of plane crashes and mass shootings, except she has a little girl's life in her hands and it's teetering, _too_. She can't pull this off. She _thought_ she could, and she _can't_ , and now the devastating result of that is waiting just around the corner. Ready to push her by one shoulder and send her toppling.

She can't do this. The thing she was best at, she can't...do it.

" _...Maggie?_ "

"I'm here. Just...thinking."

" _You should air those thoughts out. You'll go off the rails if you don't._ "

"...I don't know if I can do it." She whispers. "They canceled, Jackson. My patient's parents. I don't know if I can do any of this."

" _...Of **course** you can._" Oh, she missed his casual confidence. " _What's tripping you up? When you hit a roadblock, Maggie, I've learned it's because you're a few steps shy from perfection, which means you're already doing spectacular by most people's standards_."

"It just...wasn't good timing. I couldn't get a full recharge estimate because her heart is so weak. Her body has suffered, too, from several surgeries and already being extremely active for a child her age." Maggie flaps a useless hand, leaning off the bed and pacing around the room. "Like Sabi. Just...shrinking parameters moving too fast for me to keep up. It's like I was in a huge, beautiful, open flower field before and now I'm cramped in a little box and told to fly."

" _Mm. You've done less-than-stellar working conditions before. Remember the loose tube in the helicopter?_ "

"I never felt like the blood left my hair." Maggie whispers. Jackson chuckles.

" _Exactly. And do you remember Rafi's messed up shoulders? How you helped me figure out a way to return that boy's mobility back to him?_ "

"Yeah. Of course."

" _There's a solution out there. You're just going through the last hurdle._ " He trails off. " _...Maybe you can try something else to get that charge up. If you can't work around the weak heart, maybe change the skin. Maybe...she'll have to wear something new over it, too_."

Maggie stiffens.

... _Huh_. That... _is_ a possibility. It's not a total solution, not when it's more than the recharge that's the problem, but it could be an option down the road if she could just get that heart into her chest and get it beating. Make the charge _faster_ through thinner synthetic skin, perhaps. It could be easily bruised from her active lifestyle, unless she has a thicker flap _over_ it. Just like RiRi Williams. Maggie's mind spins faster and faster, the different variations on skin technology conjuring up over Jade's chest like a silent medical film.

"I don't know...I _could_ try that...synthetic skin could mimic the synthetic tissue made to construct the rechargeable heart..." It's a tsunami to the head. She mutters, reaching for the nearest piece of paper (the sparkly journal Zola gave her) and scribbling down notes. "I'll have to talk to Teddy...see if I can't do a last-minute switcheroo and draw up a diagram...try and keep it simple to convince her parents with a little extra visual..."

Jackson doesn't say anything all the while, but, somehow, she knows he's smiling. It hits her, then, how much she needs to see that. Maggie slowly straightens up, holding the phone with both hands.

"Um. I...i-if I can get them to change their minds...I'd love to see you there. At the surgery."

" _Try your best. Please try, and keep me updated. I'll do my best to be there, if I can. The ward's flexible, but I still can't take too many days off, and not always the ones I want._ "

Right. Of course. It's good for him, and this is exactly what they both need. Still. She just needs a few minutes with him, close enough for her to touch. Maggie crushes her eyes shut when Jackson adds:

" _If you succeed, I'll be waiting. If you don't, I'll be waiting_."

"Okay." She whispers, and tries to understand why this sensation of falling doesn't feel quite so bad.

Then he has to go, because their lives weren't entangled yet, and she loses herself in the mock-ups for the next few hours. Link comes over for dinner, which he decides to cook after a play-fight with Amelia using one of the spatulas (that makes her heart ache ridiculously). It's a delicious break and the food coma hits a _lot_ faster than normal. She falls asleep sooner than normal, too, and it might have something to do with the whisper that's stayed in her ear ever since she hung up the phone. Like a firm arm wrapped around her shoulders.

_If you succeed, I'll be waiting. If you don't, I'll be waiting_.

***

Spirituality is something she's considered in the past.

It's not quite the same as religion. There's no commitment to a higher power or doctrine. It's just a nice cluster of sentiments when the spiral of life pulls too hard. This...feeling that there's always something good and honest all around, no matter what, and right now, late into the night after a long shift discussing battle plans with Teddy, it's the _one_ thing she needs. Maggie double-checks on the kids (Zola deep asleep, Bailey and Ellis mumbling on their way to counting electric sheep). Amelia is staying with Link at his place again, alongside Cadence, and that's a growing change she has no choice but to get used to. It's a whole lot of change, really. In so very little time.

"Recharging hearts...while recharging hearts." Maggie sighs as she pulls a cardigan over her sweater and slips into a pair of boots. "The truth is cornier than fiction."

The wind is thick, soft, almost buttery as it wafts around her and makes the trees dance. Seattle weather is still strange. They're in the thick of winter, yet the night feels more like spring. She wonders if it'll come early as she checks for frost, then sits down on the porch swing.

"...I'm sorry, Mom."

God, she feels silly. Maggie looks around to make sure nobody's listening, though nobody _would_ be, with the children snoozing and the house beautifully (painfully) empty.

"I...I'm realizing something. Something that I don't think would've made sense to me a few years ago. Maybe just... _a_ year ago." Maggie rubs the cold from her hands, then tucks her fingers into her sleeves. "I think...trying too hard can sometimes be as bad as not trying hard _enough_."

She immediately wants to retract it, even though the only ears her words are hitting are her own.

"All my life you told me to do my best and to do it with my heart soaring. I don't...I don't plan to stop that..." Maggie's breath shakes. She gestures up at the stars. "...but I think I want to stop worrying so much about everything being perfect. To do that, I think I need to be okay with just regular trying. I mean, I'll still work _hard_ , obviously, I'm not going to start half-assing everything..." Her hands flop to her lap. "...but, maybe sometimes, I want to just do something, do my best, and be fine with that. To be honest and have that be enough. Let what will be... _be_."

Only the breeze answers, somehow cold and soothing. Meredith's windchimes twinkle above her head. Maggie closes her eyes and curls her legs against her chest, resting her cheek on her knee. She imagines her mother beside her. She imagines Jackson beside her. She's alone tonight, except she's not, and either way, the wind will keep blowing.

***

The following week she writes in her journal. Her feelings. Her fears. Everything but notes for a speech. That, for once, isn't something she's going to plan for.

It's not supposed to be polished and perfect. It's supposed to be honest. It's supposed to work. She'd tried to go for a perfect relationship with a man who slipped on the word perfect alongside a hearty helping of cologne, and _none of it_ worked. Her own honesty had been inconsistent, jokes and biting words one day, turning tail and fleeing the next, and that still bit her in the ass. Her best is good enough. It'll have to be. Maggie holds the sentiment close to her chest when she walks into the doctor's room to meet with Jade's parents, for the first time since they pulled out.

Jason and Brett choose to stand. They're close to the door, a habit patients have when they're communicating through body language how much they'd rather be anywhere else. Maggie feels the itch to review Post-Its or pull out a diagram. What she says instead is:

"I tried to save my mother's life and failed."

Jason's eyebrows pop up. Brett blinks, rapidly.

"I also tried to save my cousin, who I met for the first time the same day as her surgery, and she was put on life support."

The two men trade a quietly confused glance. Maggie takes in a deep breath through the fog in her chest.

"To top it all off, I put all the blame on my shoulders. My mother's cancer...was an aggressive form that was caught too _late_. Even chemotherapy and a new form of radiation treatment couldn't do it. We tried...everything. My cousin also had her heart tumor located too late. She's alive, but...barely." She thinks of Webber's countenance and holds their confused, shocked gazes. "I'm used to working within narrow parameters. I'm also used to failure. While that doesn't sound as good as bragging about an endless string of successes, it's given me a perspective that can't be taught in a school."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her rechargeable heart keychain.

"I walked off that stage because I was scared. Of failure, yes... _and_ of success. I wasn't afraid that I wasn't going to try my best. I just wanted perfection so bad that anything less, even some of the _best_ , wasn't good enough." Maggie smiles. "Your daughter is going to get the best. She's going to get the best of me, the best of the hardworking surgeons and nurses at Grey-Sloan, and the _best_ innovative technology of BPM Plus. She'll be able to live her life without fear of constant surgeries or all the long months of recovery that comes after. She's going to be able to play a game of ball without stopping and getting her pulse checked every five minutes."

Jason's eyes start to glitter. He tries to blink them away, his husband reaching over to take his hand and grip it tightly when they flow, regardless.

"I strove for perfect, when all I could do was my best." Maggie pockets the keychain. "My mother. My cousin. I gave them every ounce I had. I'm going to give Jade _everything_ I have, if you'll let me."

They take a minute to collect themselves, standing in a wet silence as they wipe their faces and communicate silently as a close couple only can. All the while her mind is automatically crossing out sentences and scribbling down red edits. She ignores it. It's another quiet parting, Jason and Brett assuring her they'll mull it over and get back to her.

She finds out the surgery is going through the next morning. The entire day feels like a dream, right up to the moment she's tying up her hair and she's paid a visit in the prep room.

"They seemed really adamant when they told me they were done with the trial." Richard tells her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "I might just find that more impressive than a rechargeable heart. _Might_ being the key word."

"You know what, I'll take it." She chuckles, before swinging over to check on Jade one more time.

It settles in, all over again. It's happening. _It's happening._ Jade looks up at her from the bed, expression carefully blank and hands twisted together. Her curly hair is all bunched up beneath a cap and she looks downright tiny in her hospital gown.

"Are you ready?" Maggie asks. The girl is trying her best to play it cool, but her eyes are just a little too wide to fool anyone.

"...Am I going to wake up after this one?" She whispers. "Last time was _really_ hard."

"Tell you what." Maggie holds her hand out. "I'll see you in a few hours and you can choose what game we play in the gameroom. I got some new ones I think you'll _love_."

"Okay." She takes her hand and grips it tight. "I'm sorry for snapping at you that one time. You're really the best doctor I ever had."

"And you're one of the best patients ever."

It's a surreal scene, walking into a surgery she didn't think was going to happen, whether for reasons of technological limitation or _personal_ limitation. She pinches herself, then feels a sharp spike of adrenaline punch through her when she doesn't wake up in her bed.

"Can you throw up with excitement?" Maggie asks Teddy. The woman raises a thin brow.

"If you can, do it in that wastebin, please. We're already behind schedule."

Maggie settles into position above the (now under) Jade, mind rolling over her stats. The rechargeable heart, despite being manufactured, is still imbued with living tissue samples from the patient to discourage the body rejecting. That's always a risk with any new body part being implanted. It also will get stronger the more it beats, its tensile strength loosening up not unlike a baseball player's mitt to mimic real muscle all the further. It all comes down to this. All the work has been done. All the steps have been taken. The next step is, as it's always been, is to simply do the thing and move forward from there.

Teddy gives her a firm nod, hands up and at the ready. Bohkee is at her station, as alert as she ever is. She's done running away. From anything and everything. Maggie turns to look up at the gallery one more time...and feels her heart swell to _bursting_.

Jackson is in the gallery.

The man's slouched next to Richard and Alex, leaning in a little as they both mutter about something or another. She shouldn't be stalling right now. They're on a ticking clock, yet her heart is battering a message into her chest, up and down and all around in a phrase she suddenly needs to say, again and again and _again_ until his face grows red and his eyes sparkle. As if hearing it, Jackson leans back in his seat and faces the glass again. His expression goes from that furrowed concentration she knows and loves so much to something much, _much_ softer.

He smiles, for her and her alone, and mouths something that might just be ' _you can do it_ '. Maggie nods, to let him know she heard, loud and clear. He nods back, then settles back in his chair.

' _I love you so much..._ ' She thinks, smiling with her eyes as best she can before getting started. ' _...and I'm going to tell you when I get out_.'

Innovation or none, this is what she was _made_ for. When she pulls out Jade's heart it's a weak, soggy little thing. So much so the sight of it cuts through her nerves and fills her with a sharp joy that something better was being put in its place. The replacement functions much the same. It's already on a low charge, throbbing beautifully in the red and pink tangle of human clockwork, and the bypass hardly misses a hitch. Teddy gives her a smile as she overlays the synthetic skin over Jade's chest.

Innovation or none, it's always over in a flash. Maggie takes off her gloves, disinfects...and pinches herself one more time when she walks out to howls and claps and whistles.

Bailey looks nearly as proud as a mother, beaming from ear-to-ear. Jason and Brett are vibrating with nerves. They shake her hand and promise her free coffee and coffee merch for life. When she says she wants to support them, they say they'll at least give her free samples for life. She nods, and smiles, but it's hard to hear or see very much beyond the seaglass gaze watching through the crowd.

Jackson's wearing a long, dark sweater peppered with grey and white. His boots are still dusted with frost and his curls are starting to poke out again, still not quite as much as the omnipresent beard he's worn since he left. He's a little further down the hallway, just outside of the growing crowd, and that's too far away. She can't _take it anymore_. Not one more time, not one more cold and miserable inch. Never again. Never again.

She's running again, but not away. She runs _to_ him, just barely keeping from clipping her medical peers' shoulders, and flings herself into his arms. Jackson catches her and holds her tight, as if they've never once been out of practice.

" _You did it_." He breathes, smiling so wide she can see his laugh lines again. "You did it."

" _We_ did it. I have follow-ups to do on her skin, remember?"

He doesn't quite acquiesce to that, because this is her day, but there's still a glitter in his gaze and a curve to his mouth. A hint of loving, glowing pride in a job well done. Jackson, forever, is a gravity. When she moves again it's to cup his face and kiss him properly, without a _drop_ of wine in sight.

"...and on _that_ note..." Richard says. "...I want to thank you all for showing out to one of Grey-Sloan's most innovative surgeries of all time."

Maggie freezes. ...Oh, **crap**.

"Show's over." Alex adds. "Lobby's just down the hall."

She shakily pulls back, enough to see Jackson's eyes as round as the moon.

...Oh.

Maggie shakily slides her hands down to adjust his collar, clearing her throat (and failing). Jackson swallows, so slow she can see his Adam's apple bob. A few people mutter behind them as they leave, but he has no interest in the crowd. He's looking at _her_ , eyes blistering with an intensity she hasn't seen in far, _far_ too long.

Note to herself: public displays of affection are generally a no-no in professional establishments. That's a common thing everyone knows, including her, because she works here. She can already hear the gossip popping off in the halls in her next morning shift. Maggie stamps on a smile and gives a few parting words of confidence for Brett and Jason's extended family, then a few words for the interns. The whole time Jackson hovers nearby, a foot away and with his omnipresent gaze stamped to her back. Still as wide as a galaxy.

"Um, if it's all right with all of you, I'm going to get out of these scrubs." Maggie tugs at her sleeves. "They look great for a photo op, don't get me wrong, but I feel like I'm taking a sauna in my own sweat."

She gives Jackson a look, then, and he promptly leans up off the wall. He drifts over to her and they leave together, side-by-side just like they used to during the Grey-Sloan golden days. Changing out of her sweaty scrubs is at the forefront of her mind. Eating something hearty follows close behind. Just one thing supersedes it all, though, and it turns her trajectory not toward the bathrooms, but the nearest storage room. Maggie tugs out her card and waves it impatiently, then quickly checks inside to make sure it's empty.

The second she steps in and closes the door Jackson's pressing her against the wall, cupping the back of her neck and crushing their mouths together and turning everything _gold_ again.

The weight of the months slams into her all at once. Had he ever smelled _this_ good? Felt _this_ warm? Maggie moans and digs fingers into his hair, bunching the curls into her palms, feels down his cheeks to that beard he's kept, filling in the lonely gaps her empty bed never could. She's vaguely aware Jackson's making a sound in the very pit of his throat, maybe a whimper, maybe canceled words, and she might be making them, too. No, she is. When he angles his mouth for a breath a helpless little whine slips out, embarrassing and sharp against his chin, but all he says is:

" _Maggie._ "

Somehow, he packs everything into her name. She can hear it all. Love, blistering and hot in each pant into her mouth. Apology, with how tender he's cupping the back of her neck, how he still holds himself a centimeter off her, prepared for the rejection, maybe, or her departure. Lust, with an aching firmness she can feel when she shifts her leg. Maggie doesn't stop herself from touching every last inch she can reach. Doesn't stop gnawing him open, sucking him in. Her lips are growing raw, and her head is starting to spin from a lack of consistent air, but she can't stop, can't even _dream_ of stopping.

"Maggie-" He whispers again, voice gone husky, and she tugs him closer, until that infernal gap is destroyed for good and he's pressing her heavy against the wall.

"Yes." She says, to everything. " _Yes_ -"

Jackson makes a decidedly different sound now. She remembers it from the too-brief minutes they'd sneak in-between shifts, when he'd press that growl to the back of her neck and rut to the beat of their ticking clock. Maggie _shivers_ when he snakes his mouth along her jawline, down the side of her throat, a scratchy-and-wet play of his beard and tongue that eliminates the need for her to pinch her arm. Her appetite is no different. She kisses his long neck, inwardly thrilling at the way his skin bunches into goosebumps. He slows down, then, to let her explore, tall enough he can easily kiss and nibble at her hairline.

Something in her coat pocket shakes, but her breath is shaking, her hands are shaking, her whole universe is rattling like snow off a tree. Why has she waited this long? Maybe he'd been the martyr, but _she'd_ been the coward, and now she's lost all this time. All the time she could've been in his chest like this, breathing his air, tasting his sweat. Jackson nestles elbows on either side of her head and bites at the corner of her mouth, insistently, physically asking where words have failed them both. When she turns her head he slides his tongue into her mouth, and there's nothing else, _nothing_ else, in the world.

Then her pocket shakes, _again_ , and she distantly realizes someone's been trying to call her.

"O-Oh. Oh, damn-"

Maggie bumps her knuckles against his thigh as she fumbles out her phone, limbs connected more on theory than fact. She has to punch in her password three times before it takes.

"Th-They need to see me soon. For the...interview. Right. I _totally_ forgot."

There's something on the screen about a few parting words, then a follow-up. It's hard to figure out the words on the screen, because Jackson's chin is still hooked over the crook of her shoulder, panting a soft pattern she used to fall asleep to. For a few moments they stand in silence, catching their breath. The high's been pierced. Now it's happened. They're here, right here, and neither of them knows what to do about it. Reality is always a sobering detail, and the little reminders pop up in the back of her mind like taps on the shoulder. He's still committed. She's still got a new patient to take care of with a whole new world of unknown to look forward to.

Things are still...fragile.

"I...I need to go see everyone out in the lobby, really quick-" She starts. Jackson blinks, like he's getting out of a dream, then promptly leans off her, taking his warmth (and heartbeat and breath and stubble and-) with him.

"Right, right." He rubs a hand over his beard, nodding firmly (and a little too much). "I understand."

"Kiss me again later." She whispers. "Okay?"

Jackson studies her carefully. His lips are a little swollen, and she can see the beginning of a mark peeking just over the edge of his collar. He leans forward, takes her by the chin with one hand and presses their mouths together. He holds, so soft and slow she could weep, then pulls away.

"...Okay."

She really thought she'd stop spinning. It's time to make peace with the fact she never will.

"I..." She wants to say it. She _needs_ to say it. "Jackson, I-"

-and she's still afraid. She _still_ is. It's been several months since their good thing shattered, a spiral of agony and revelations so dizzying it feels thrice as long, but now it's back and it's _fresh_. She's afraid of pouring those three words into him and having them spat back in her face. That maybe he's dating someone behind her back (even though he's not the cheating type, never has been-) or keeping more things from her, things she needs to know _now_ , when it's not too late. It's nothing but doom on her cloud, as much as she wishes it were easier.

Jackson doesn't look hurt by her hesitance. By all the things she _knows_ he can read, because she can't hide a thing from him. He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, staring at her all the while with a look that's...hopeful.

"It's okay." He squeezes her fingers, then lets go. "Baby steps."

She can do that. Maggie pulls out (nearly drops) her key card and waves it over the door scanner. It doesn't budge. She checks to make sure she's using the right side, then waves it again. Nothing. Her chest grows cold. ...Oh, _no_. She looks over her shoulder, silently praying he's distracted with his phone or looking somewhere else, but, no. He's staring right at her, too bright and aware now.

"What?"

"Um. Nothing." She turns back around, waves it again, wanting nothing more than to punch that little red light. "Let me just try again..."

"We're locked in."

Maggie turns around. Jackson's gaze is drifting away now, but not in the way she was hoping for.

"It's fine." He smiles, blankly, and shrugs. "Just call someone."

"It won't take long." She assures, hastily. "It shouldn't be more than a minute or two. It's gotten better, but sometimes they just...clog up. I don't know. I'm not a specialist for fancy door locks. These things have been a pain in the ass for almost everybody here..."

Jackson just nods. Then nods some more, and steps away from her to lean his back against the wall beside the doorframe and stare at nothing.

Maggie's finger hovers over the dial pad, watching as he clenches and unclenches his hands in slow, trembling repetitions. He breathes like he doesn't have enough oxygen, each inhale tight and each exhale a shudder. It's a little terrifying to watch, the memory of glass in his hands haunting the back of her mind. She pushes the fear down as hard as possible. That's not fair of her. _He's_ afraid right now. Terrified, in a way she can never imagine and hopes she never will.

"What...can I do?" She asks. The blank stare doesn't leave. Jackson starts to grinds his teeth, rolling his jaw from side-to-side.

"Get us out of here." He laughs, too sharply, and rubs at his knuckles again, until they turn white. "Please."

"Of course." She sends the call through, then holds her phone to her ear. "I just...I meant for you, too. When this happens."

"Don't worry about it."

That's a little impossible, now that he's graduated from her nasty ex-boyfriend to someone she loved _and_ hated shut away on Seattle's outskirts back to her dearest one. It's too much to feel in one day, she thinks. She's starting to sway from the overwhelm herself. Maggie lets the receptionist's desk know about the locked door, then ends the call and runs an exhausted hand down her face. ...God, she could be such a hypocrite sometimes. This very thing she's asking of him is what _she's_ afraid to do, too. Where did that get him...and where did that get her?

"If we're going to do this again, we need to lean on each other." She gestures to him. "Trying to be this strong, lone pillar is how it started, right?"

Jackson nibbles on his lip. He rubs his chin and looks away, scouring the floor for whatever he hears or sees when this happens.

"Jackson." She repeats, an edge of desperation snaking her way into her voice. "Right?"

"I don't want to come back just to make you do more _work_."

Her letter echoes hot off the heels of his words. Maggie squares her shoulders back.

"Then _don't_ make me do more work. I'll do my part and you'll do your part. Let's lean on each other, because that's what..." Her throat catches. "...a _couple_ does."

Jackson finally looks up. Seaglass and yearning peering through the veneer of quiet terror. Maggie reaches out, just like last time. He stares at her hand, not delusional, but _beautifully_ comprehending-

-and the door swings wide open. Richard peers in, face pulled down into a tight frown.

"I'm _so_ sorry." He sighs. "Just when this whole mess seemed to be resolved. They were pretty confident that they got to the root of the issue when I spoke to them..."

The man trails off at the sight of Jackson.

"...about it."

Jackson smiles, tersely, and flicks a hand.

"Hey."

"...Hey." Richard looks between them tiredly. "Oh, fuck it. I'm going to get these doors back to the way they used to or I'll tear them down myself."

Maggie gives Jackson a weary smile, which he responds to with a cock of the eyebrow. They couldn't have said it better themselves.

The day's left her so exhausted she could float away. She walks and she's suddenly being congratulated by another gaggle of nurses and interns. She visits the lobby and checks in with a reporter asking for a statement (and the only time Jackson mysteriously disappears). She almost panics at that, until he pops up down the hallway and reminds her she needs to take a shower. She walks, and she's in the shower scrubbing the sweat off and thinking about burritos. Up and down and all around Grey-Sloan she goes, and Jackson is always just around the corner. Waiting, like he said he would, the thin, nebulous space maintained between them not unlike the gap in a healing wound.

Then again, it might be more like a scar, and this is the part where the bad starts to fade and show what used to be.

"I didn't drive to the hospital today. Too nervous." She says once she's out. Jackson's tapping something into his phone, but he looks up instantly. "Going to call a Lyft."

"Same."

Their kiss plays and replays in the back of her mind, her body's way of begging for a repeat. It's already a lot. Jackson waits quietly as she buttons up her coat and rubs on some chapstick, drifting after her like a shadow as she heads out of the lobby and into the parking lot. When she sits on the bench he sits next to her, still not _quite_ so close, and offers her a bundle of snacks, like that's the closest he can get to her after their self-contained explosion in the changing room. Maggie takes the chip bag and just leans against his shoulder.

Jackson leans back immediately, like a magnet to metal. The cold snakes around them in sharp loops, but the round of his shoulder is a firm, warm memory.

" _I'm so tired_." She mumbles. "If all my limbs fall off my body, can you deliver them to the sisterhouse?"

"Sure." He says, around a yawn. Maggie watches him as he starts to wring his fingers. "Three to five business days, schedule permitting."

"Thanks. So, uh...how's it feel being back?" She asks, hesitantly. Jackson rolls his jaw.

"...Weird." He shifts, a little, and fidgets with the wrapper. "...More than a little weird. Thought some distance would help, but now that I'm back...I have to deal with the fact everyone saw what happened to me. Everyone knows. They _know_ I know they know, too. It's...I don't know."

"Baby steps." She reminds, nudging him with her elbow. Jackson hums.

"Right." He agrees, easily enough, then rubs at his knuckles. "...Speaking of baby steps, did you...still want to go out?"

Maggie's face heats up. Seems like cloud nine is coming back one more time before retiring for the night.

"...Yeah." She says, and Jackson _grins_ , because he's still a hopeless romantic that got in a tizzy over wining and dining her. "Yeah, I'd...really like that."

Maggie studies him as he (finally) nibbles on a corner of his Clif bar, staring off into the dark. She's had a few panic attacks herself, so it's easy to crossreference her own experiences with what she's been reading on PTSD. The shutdown period is the body's attempt to reboot after an influx of stress. Just coming here must've taken all his energy. She's going to talk to him about these things later. For now, it's vending machine snacks and resting her legs. Funyuns are the best thing she's ever tasted and she's pretty sure apple juice is her new favorite thing.

Tired is fine. Zoning out is great. They're both here, and that's the very _best_ of the very best things. She leans into his shoulder again when a cold breeze catches. Jackson meets her halfway, resting his cheek against her hair and sighing tiredly. He used to seem so tireless all the way back when, always on his unbroken stride to another obligation or meeting. It's another thing to get used to, and that's more than fine. Maggie checks her phone. Estimated two to three minutes on the Lyft.

"You can stay at the sisterhouse tonight, if you like. Go back tomorrow."

Jackson yawns, wide and slow.

"Can't. Not until I'm discharged." He breaks the invisible barrier and presses a kiss to her hair, and everything in her curls _tight_ with joy. "Soon."

"Maybe call them and ask for an extension?" Maggie tries. The look he gives her brooks no argument. She won't give up. "Come on, it's a...big place. Surely they won't notice if you show up a little late."

"Right. I'll just send in my body double to cover for me." He rubs his chin, brow furrowing. "Might have to wear a fake beard, but..."

Maggie blinks and shifts up to look at him.

"You have a body double?"

"Of _course_ I don't." Jackson shifts into a more comfortable position and smirks, rolling his eyes toward the street. "You're really gullible for a genius."

"No, you're just that freaking _rich_."

Jackson's already laughing, though, and now she's going to have to find a way to get him back. Great. Maggie groans and pushes him, hiding her own smile as not to give him the satisfaction. He's still snickering like a jerk when her phone buzzes. She shouldn't look at it. This long, short, tumultuous, stressful, wonderful day's _over_. She can get back to the grind after she's made sweet love to her pillow. Maggie sighs and looks, anyway, just to get it off her mind...and goes still. Jackson leans over to take a look, chewing on a bigger bite she's happy to see, but it's kind of hard to process anything more than that.

"What is it?" He asks, smile fading slowly as he takes her in. His eyes flick up and down. "What's wrong?"

It's too good to be true. It _has_ to be.

"...Maggie?"

Maggie holds out her hand. Jackson takes it without hesitation, knitting their fingers together tightly and holding his breath with her.

"... _Sabi's awake_."

***

Love is undeterred. It figures out a way, an eternal river winding through rock and just as steady. The man standing on the curb stares after her long after she's swept away into the night, and the love that radiates from him is almost as tempestuous as her own. The leaves have fallen fully now. They're making the decision to share their winter and weather their storms, creating a bloom well before spring sings again.

My darling. My dearest one. Look at how much you done. Look at how _far_ you've come.

* * *

_Take care of each piece and the human body can churn out some truly wonderful things._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I pulled the convenient 'they're locked in' trope! I know! _Let me be corny just this once, at least I established things beforehand-_
> 
> This song inspiration is from Beyond The Lights, one of my absolute favorite films and a woefully underrated work of art. One of the most thoughtful, sensitive and optimistic stories I've ever seen, with stunning performances, to boot. Every time I hear this track I feel like a good friend is sitting me down and holding my hand.
> 
> Also: shout-out to a reader ( _you know who you are_ ) for bringing up the idea of Jackson giving Maggie an idea to help her with her surgery. I can't _believe_ that slipped me by. I mean, they're a power couple. _The_ power couple.


	10. effervescence

**Song Inspiration:** "The Winter" by Vanilla

*

_will you love me in the winter_

* * *

_What does it mean, to 'love what you do'?_

_The first thought that pops up in most Westerners' heads is it's a question about work. You do a job, you hopefully find a little passion or meaning in it, that love proceeds to offset the long hours, thankless clientele and inadequate compensation. Some get frustrated at this statement, and rightfully so. You are what you do, but what you do isn't more or less important because there's a paycheck attached. Sometimes it's the very opposite, in fact._

_'What you do' isn't a state of being, nor is it a determination of one's righteous passion, but an ongoing action. A ripple effect of choices and lack of choices. Love, well...is no different. No different at all._

* * *

Ballpoint pens are _such_ wonderful things.

They're portable writing utensils that have become ubiquitous with modern life, emerging from the fancy-yet-implausible quill and the classy-yet-delicate nib. They last a long time, create beautiful ink and can be easily tucked away just about anywhere. What a feat of human ingenuity! Maggie scratches in a crosshatch to flesh out her heart, tilting the paper just so in the light to figure out any missing spots. It's a weird little fascination she has on a Friday afternoon, but she'll take it. Today is not the day to spill out her feelings in a diary. Today she just doodles, because for once, she can.

" _Done!_ Can I go to the cafeteria now?"

Maggie looks up to today's pom-pom pigtails, currently askew from their wearer's dance session.

"Do a _feeew_ more cartwheels or handstands for me. Then you can eat all the basic hospital fare you want."

Jade huffs and puffs a good game, but this girl _still_ wastes no time showing what she can do. She trots to the other side of the room and gets into position, testing out her balance with a few brief squats. Maggie promptly sets down her pen and watches the girl lean back, then lurch forward and complete an impressive, unbroken series of cartwheels. When she reaches the end of the room she doesn't stop, spinning on her heels, leaning backwards and handstanding. She walks to the other side of the room, then flips back onto her feet and stands up in a gymnastics pose, arms arched high. Maggie applauds heartily.

"Better than I could've ever hoped for." And, boy, if _that_ isn't a classic example of a double-meaning. "Ten out of ten!"

Jade grins and dips into a low bow. Against all odds, the rechargeable heart project is proceeding as planned and it's a _miracle in motion_.

The charge still doesn't _quite_ reach 100%, but due to her thinner skin flap there's a combination of higher charge and less fluctuation. She's not worried. Jade's body just needs time to heal. Once she's bounced back from the stress of several past surgeries, she has no doubt the rechargeable heart will follow suit and help her reach those heights she dreamed of. If not? Well, that's what innovations were for. Jade's admiring her new addition in the mirror, shirt lifted high enough to show the semi-translucent patch over her new heart.

Progress takes time and a little faith. Healing takes time and a little faith. She may not be religious, but she's learning how to hope against her better sense.

"Boys are always telling me I can't do stuff because I'm a girl." Jade says, apropos of nothing. "Do you ever get that, Dr. Pierce?"

"Ooh, I definitely did growing up. I was bully material with a capital B." Maggie bobs her head from side-to-side. "Now? Occasionally. _Usually_ on the Internet by Twitter accounts with less than ten followers."

"Well. I'm a cyborg and you're a cyborg maker. There's literally nothing they can say now."

Maggie gives Jade a resounding high-five. She couldn't have said it better herself. While putting away all their charts and notebooks her patient takes another few seconds to admire her new heart (a habit she's picked up ever since she got out of bed). There's a very faint pulsing beneath the skin, just translucent enough to show a flickering shadow filled with potential. It's probably the most beautiful thing she's ever seen in her life.

"Kind of looks like...a goldfish in a bowl." Jade holds up a finger and lowers it ominously. "If I poke it like this-"

" _Jade!_ "

The girl snickers and tugs her shirt back down.

"I'm kidding." She hunkers down to pull on her sneakers. "Anyway, can I go get lunch from the cafeteria now?"

"You know, I can ask a nurse to bring you something to eat."

"Oh."

Maggie narrows her eyes. That's a mighty disappointed tone to take for a girl who didn't exactly find busy, tired nurses the most fascinating company.

"What is it?"

"Zola's your niece, right? She said hi earlier and asked if I wanted to hang out..." She shrugs. "I mean, it's whatever..."

What a conundrum. She's torn with auntie pride at all her life's babies getting along _and_ frustration that Zola snuck out of her room to explore after her check-up. It's not like it could be helped. Grey-Sloan is practically her castle, and she its princess. It _might've_ even been her way of trying to reason with the acute absence of her mother in her own hospital. Maggie promptly snaps her notebook shut, tucks away the pen and tells Jade to put on her sweatshirt, too.

"You and her will have a lot to talk about. She's in ballet class."

" _Ballet?_ " Jade blinks. She pauses, then ties a double-knot. "...Ballet is _really_ hard."

Zola is scratching something in her journal when they walk up to her, a juice box and half-eaten bag of chips by her arm.

"Hey, Zola." Her patient, bless her, tries to play it chill with her hands in her hoodie pockets. "Cool notebook."

"Oh! Hi, Jade."

The assistant nurse takes them both off her hands, then, and frees her up for the afternoon. It's time for burritos and some space to finish up her doodles. Maggie checks her phone for any messages in-between putting her hair back. One from Amelia with a photo of Cadence beneath her new knitted blankets, round head barely poking out between the lavender and pink. Another one from Catherine, asking if they can get together sometime. One from...

_thinking of you, Jackson, 11:43 a.m.._

Spring is so close, yet so far. Despite how bright it is, the air whips mercilessly and makes her immediately regret not bringing more than her thin lab coat. In a stroke of luck, an arm waves at her from one of the cars by the curb. It's Alex, still in _his_ lab coat and squinting through the sunlight.

"You on lunch break?" He yells over the construction behind him. Maggie jogs over.

"Yeah, just got off."

"Come on. Let's go somewhere to eat."

If she were stretched out on a table and getting a scan, there would be real-time footage of her stomach doing a triple backflip. Maggie dives into the car and happily buckles her seatbelt. Alex smiles to himself as he pulls out.

"What are you in the mood for?" He waves someone across the crosswalk, then makes a turn and pulls out of view of Grey-Sloan. "I'd commit a homicide for some barbecue or some soft tacos."

"Same, same and same." Maggie sighs, leaning back and feeling, truly, all the knots and bumps in her shoulders. "There's this _one_ place Nico recommended, but never had the time..." She pulls out her phone and taps in some directions. "Just give me a second."

It's not particularly busy on a weekday afternoon, and it's all the better for it. It means faster food _and_ less background ambiance forcing them to yell out their sentences. They find a window booth overlooking the well-paved stretch of street, though they don't have any eyes for it. The menu is filled with a plethora of options, each one more mouthwatering than the last, and it comes down to a coin flip between a grilled lemon-lime soft taco or a pepper kebab over rice. Alex orders a shredded pork dish, then settles back to talk about, as he puts it, the 'effervescent fuckery' of merging Pac North with Grey-Sloan.

"Zola was right. That _is_ a good word." He mutters out of the side of his mouth, reaching for his water and taking a sip.

"It'll both be a very good thing _and_ a very bad thing to have them merging with us." Maggie replies, idly wondering when it'll be that the entire hospital will just crumple in on itself like a paper mache art project. Alex holds up his water glass in an ironic toast.

"You always were the optimist in the family."

The waiter drops by to give them some house chips, covered in a spicy dust that's so tasty she licks her fingers off. Poor Alex. His problems have gone from a rockslide to an avalanche. Meredith being sent off was already difficult, what with his own close shave nearly being sent to jail and his mother being committed for schizophrenia. Jo committing herself had been the final blow. She's never forgotten how he shut himself away for days and days afterwards, a scruffy shell of the sometimes-chill, sometimes-crass man that became like the brother she never had. Even now, his half-smile is more a one-third smile, dusted with a permanent exhaustion just like the chips.

"You're giving that chip a _very_ weird look right now." Alex notes, drily. Maggie promptly eats it.

"I'm just thanking it for bringing me joy."

It's not always pretty looking into the mirror. Both Meredith and Jackson being shut away, for such murky reasons, has also left its toll on her. Her sister had wanted to do some good in an unjust healthcare system, yet chose one of the absolute messiest ways of going about it. Jackson had been ( _has been_ , that little voice corrects) staggering under the weight of a thousand problems for years, things she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy. He didn't do nearly enough to counteract it and paid the price. It's their fault, yet isn't their fault, and all this was almost over.

Almost.

"Come on. You've got something to say, say it." Alex reaches around to refill her water cup. "We're not about to have you confessing all your concerns to a bottle of wine."

A hazy memory rises at that, of a murky whisper in her ear and a roaring fire. Huh. A lot of people have been bringing her drinking habits up lately. Maggie looks down.

"It's...that bad, huh?"

Alex looks a little startled.

"Well... _yeah_ , but I'm not pissed at you about it. I'm just worried."

"Um. I'll talk about that. I will. I _did_ have something else to ask, though."

"Hit me."

"Disclaimer, if this is hard to talk about, you don't have to...go into any great detail or anything. Or talk about it all, if you don't want to." She starts. Alex just raises his eyebrows. "What's it...how do you..." Maggie trails off, valiantly trying to pull the best description out of the air, then sighs. "Okay. I've never known what it's like to have a, um...mentally ill spouse? It's like I'm still in a 101 course but had to take a crash course and I'm usually great on any test but I really, _really_ don't want to mess it up. If you have any advice, I could really use it."

She watches the journey in Alex's brown eyes. The way his face falls a little, a subtle shift most people probably wouldn't notice or just blow off as rude. Then the way he takes another bite, more deliberate now and missing a spot in his beard when he mops at his mouth with a napkin.

"...Well. I _am_ an expert on crazy." He mutters. Maggie frowns.

"That's an awful way to put it."

"Well, if you want _clinical_ , you should probably talk to a psychologist."

Maggie frowns harder, then gestures pointedly at her face. Alex blinks, then dabs fingers around for the spot.

"Thanks. So. Rule number one? Know the warning signs. Not just the big ones, either. Not everything's a big screaming meltdown. If it _is_ , well, you see them sent to a psychiatric ward." He shrugs. "If they make it there. Anyway. A lot of the little symptoms slide right past us. You wouldn't ignore a heart murmur or a weird cough at the hospital, so don't ignore it with a spouse. Panic attacks, nightmares, uh, moodiness or zoning out? Like, my mother would get in these obsessive cycles out of the blue. Like randomly wanting to do dishes all the time or watching non-stop reruns of some crappy bachelorette drama."

"Very specific examples for very specific problems. Okay." She wipes off her fingers, then takes out her phone and pulls up her memos, tapping in as fast as she can. To her surprise, Alex doesn't make a joke about her being a nerd. "That's called hyperfixation, right?"

"It can be, yeah. You been reading up on symptoms?"

"Yeah. A _lot_."

"Good. Read up on routine, too. Routine helps a lot. He likes to jog, right? Make sure he sticks to it however you can. Mental illness isn't all the same, but structure really helps with keeping the spirals at bay."

"Lots...of...jogging..." Maggie mutters, thumbs a blur. "Lots of...medical magazines...and...cooking time..."

She starts to type down 'camping', then stops herself. ...Baby steps. Alex breezes on, as smooth as an unofficial expert on mental health can be.

"This'll sound weird, but don't be super obvious about helping all the time. I mean, you'll _have_ to talk about it, set up some sort of understanding, but...it's embarrassing. It's not easy admitting your brain got bumped down to low-tier and getting out of bed is the hardest thing in the world." Alex waves a hand when Maggie cocks her head. "Like...if he's looking kind of spacey, or acting funny, don't be too blunt. Offer to do something. If he's forgetting to eat, eat lunch a little earlier to balance it out. Learning how to discuss this stuff takes time. If you're too blunt on the jump, it can make people clam up."

Wow. When the king of bluntness is telling her to tone it down, she _knows_ it's serious. She thinks back to the bridge by Grey-Sloan, a citylit reprieve after that surreal scene in the hyperbaric chamber, where Jackson had screamed and begged to be let out. When she'd told him he might have 'a little PTSD', he'd _immediately_ deflected. Eventually acquiesced on a _maybe_...followed by another deflection. It'd been because of a declaration of love, admittedly, and she wasn't mad about it. They just can't progress if he keeps beating around the bush.

"I mean..." Alex's tone grows flat. "I'm not going to pretend this is one-size-fits-all advice, but I've known Jackson for years and _that_ man? Is allergic to share time."

Maggie snorts into her cup. He can say _that_ again. The dry pop of humor dies quickly at his next words.

"I was kind of waiting for him to snap, really. After the shooting we had to go to a mandated group therapy thing. Barely any of us stayed on topic, so I won't pretend it's unique to him, but, still. He sucks at it. He and I went to the bar a few times afterwards, just the two of us instead of the group. I think we _wanted_ to talk about what we went through, but neither of us were really good at that soft, vulnerable crap." He rummages around for the last chips in the basket. "Told him I fucking hated elevators. Still do. He said he hated-"

"-being locked in." Maggie finishes, softly. He nods.

"Yeah. I remember him flipping his shit when he got stuck with a guy under cardiac arrest. Teddy told me about it." Alex rubs his beard. "...You said he lost his shit in Bailey's chamber?"

"Yeah. He, um...banged on the glass. Yelled. He was terrified and kind of angry, too." She says, feeling the pull of a mutual revelation between them. Alex nods slowly.

"Being locked in with _patients_." He mutters, and snorts humorlessly. "That makes sense."

The waiter brings in their food, steaming hot, and the conversation slows to a lull as they dig in, careful not to burn their fingers or tongue. She wonders if _that's_ what had Jackson holding onto his sanity after Jade's surgery, when they'd been shut in that changing room out of nowhere: no patients. Then _again_ , maybe it was his progress from the ward. He'd certainly pulled out some coping mechanisms that day. Maggie feels abruptly weary, dolloping on some spicy guacamole and stewing in the mulch of fond, painful, confused emotions. He's always just a little mysterious, and he _can't_ be after all this. Not anymore.

She pauses mid-bite when Alex reaches over to give her wrist a squeeze.

"Remember what you love about him, and hold onto it during the tough times, because it'll get tough."

Maggie carefully sets her food down.

"I'll be frank with you. Sometimes I never wanted to see my mother again. She put me through _hell_ , then capped off the final hurrah by leaving me on a street corner. You'll feel that way sometimes and that's normal. Right now...she's doing so well. She's focused and considerate and patient. She's also ill. She gets bad spells that make me feel sick to my stomach, makes me so angry I literally see _red_ , and she always will be ill. All her sewing and strict schedules just makes it more manageable. It's all true and it all sucks. I love her. I wish I could simplify this more, but it's not simple. I _think_ , ironically, that's what makes it easier."

"You just accept that you're doing your best." Maggie says. "Perfect is impossible."

Alex smiles, plucks the last chip from the basket and plunks it into the guacamole.

"Exactly."

***

She's gotten used to reviving the past.

It's why she arrived at Grey-Sloan in the first place, seeking out her half-sister and biological father. Nostalgia has always been nipping at her heels, with her wishing for sunny Hawaii weather in rainy Washington. Dolling up her face for the day has her thinking, ridiculously, about that prank date someone set her up on back in junior high: when she'd been wise from elementary bullying, yet _just_ insecure enough to fall for a stupid trick. It's an understandable connection, she determines as she skips the eyeshadow and rubs on some gloss. Trust was hard to build and _easy_ to break.

Reviving the past came in two parts today. A friendship with a cousin she didn't know she existed and resuscitating the great love of her life. She's not running.

Pac North looks, somehow, even worse than usual when she arrives. Half of it is broken down and packed away, while the other half is still up and running at maximum (ish) capacity. It's all for the best: it's almost ready to be shuffled into Grey-Sloan and polished from an ugly duckling to a two-headed swan. What was the final result going to be called? Grey-Sloan-North? Grey-Pac? It's a thought so amusing it nearly distracts her from why she's visiting. Maggie walks through the front doors and signs in at the desk, heart palpitating so unevenly it could be confused for a jazz composition.

"Good to see you again, Dr. Pierce."

"Likewise."

She checks her phone on her way up the stairs and down the (very cramped, very poorly mopped) hallways. Webber has sent her quite a few well-wishings this week, commending her (again) on what a stellar job she did under her constraints, and if she wants to have dinner with him and Catherine next month. She types in a response with trembling thumbs, then pretends the doorknob she's grabbing is just any other door and twists it.

The room is more respectable, at least, though it's sorely missing a watercolor painting or plant to break up the drabness. Sabi is sitting upright in her bed with a magazines, crossword puzzles and newspapers strewn over her in a second blanket. Maggie shakes. She's awake. Actually _awake_. No matter how hard she pinches her arm, she doesn't wake up and she doesn't have another day of almost-failure hanging over her day-to-day. She's-

"... _Maggie_."

- _awake_.

"Oh, oh, oh my gosh, I'm sorry about the mess-"

Oh, gosh. Her heart can't take much more of these dramatic reveals. Maggie slowly shuts the door behind her, jittering like she's standing on a trampoline in high-heels. The poor woman looks visibly thinner, life support as sharp a double-edged sword as it always is. Her cheekbones jut out (a little more than Jackson's did, that one day-) and her hair is up in a very strained bun. There's a glitter in her eyes, though. The kind that says her brain is at full capacity, or damn near close to it.

"You're fine, you're totally fine. I didn't exactly announce myself. What's up?" Maggie asks, as politely as she can, moving over to the lone chair (but not sitting).

"Being practically nailed to this bed and eating food so bland I've forgotten what paprika tastes like. I've almost finished my last crossword puzzle, too, so not as great as I _could_ be." Sabi tries valiantly to try and organize her activity pile, to no avail. A magazine slides and plops to the floor. "Oh, dang it-"

Maggie swoops in and plucks it. Well, there's her segue.

"Home Crafts, huh?" She says, holding it out. Sabi smiles, a touch bashfully, and takes it from her.

"I _kiiind_ of have a new appreciation for pretty decor after being stuck in here for god knows how long." She pauses, eyes lighting up. "...Oh. Oh, your timing is perfect. I need to thank you."

Maggie rolls her mouth into a fine line. She wants to say, " _For trapping you in Pac North?_ " It might be funny, if a small and very stubborn part of her still sort of believed it. She resists the urge. The gratitude in Sabi's eyes is making her shake in brand new ways.

"Every day since I woke up I've been thinking about how awful I was to you." Sabi takes in a deep, strained breath, hands folded in her lap. "I put off going to the doctor until it was too late, then got mad at _you_ when you were the best option. That wasn't fair of me at _all_."

It's such a strange spot to land, since they left on such a poor note, right after getting off on such a _great_ note.

"Well, if it helps, it's nothing Chris hasn't already said." Maggie replies with a smile...then freezes. Wait. That wasn't the right thing to say, either. Sabi slowly tilts her head.

"What... _did_ my father say, exactly?"

That hiring her on was a mistake. That she wasn't a member of the family so much as a shitty comet that crashed on their doorstep and flung ash all over their loved ones. On top of refusing to talk to her and, when she _finally_ wrested a call out of him, blew her off. The dusty aftermath of people's grief has been the air she's been breathing for _months_ now and it's only now is she realizing how much she's been choking. Her and Sabi's connection must have survived the long weeks apart, because she takes one look at her face and covers her eyes.

"Oh, god." She groans. "Oh, _god_."

"It's...he was going through a rough time. I didn't expect him to embrace me with open arms, I mean, my own half-sister didn't, at first, and don't get me started on my _other_ adopted sister-" Maggie tries. Sabi flaps a hand, looking utterly mortified.

"No. No, I _know_ my father, he...he's not always easy to be around at the best of times. He shouldn't have treated you like that. I'm...oh, god." She slides her hand back down, grimacing. "Talk about an introduction to the family, right? Here, once I get out I'll talk to him for you."

Maggie sighs and finally sits down in the chair (which creaks like it's about to wheeze dust). She won't lie. It's been a lot of internal monologuing and buzzed nights trying to reconcile with the weight of Chris' blame and sorrow. She'd gone from blaming herself for not doing a good enough job to accepting that perfection was one of her greatest enemies. His grief was a reason, though. Not an excuse. She knows that now. When she shares these thoughts with Sabi the woman listens to her closely, eyes glistening and understanding probably even better than she does.

She's probably been blaming herself, too.

Then they talk about...things. Just _things_. Not protocol or the next tragedy of the day or their messy family lives, but the best plants to furbish a home with. Favorite colors and a funny childhood memory about a hackysack that a squirrel stole. It's the catch-up they've both needed, and it feels even better than her most indulgent best-outcome fantasies.

"I mean, I'm still outfitting Grey-Sloan with new additions, but _this?_ " Maggie huffs, looking around with her hands on her hips. "You need at _least_ two watercolor paintings and a photo of a heterosexual couple running through a grassy field."

"Nah, give me one of those corny kitten calendars." Sabi chuckles. "Gosh. It's going to be weird getting back to my own life. I hardly even remember what it's like to, like, get up for midnight orange juice or do dishes. God, I miss stupid dishes."

"I know a few people who could probably talk to you about that." Maggie says, more humorously than she thought herself capable of.

"I don't doubt it. Speaking of which, what are you going to do today? Who are you going to hang out with?" Sabi, despite her dwindling energy, straightens up happily. "Belabor me with thoughts of your fascinating everyday. Bathroom breaks and existential crises included."

"Funny you should mention, I'm actually on a schedule today." Maggie can't help but grin at the thought. "I'm going out to eat tonight."

"Ooh, is it a date?" Sabi tries to sit up as best she can, tired eyes lighting up. "Yeah, it's a date. I can tell. With who?"

Maggie winces and delicately runs a hand over her hair, feeling for anything that could work as a distraction. No curl poking out. No stray leaf. Oh, boy.

"...Jackson."

At first Sabi looks a little lost, and Maggie's heart spikes with the very misplaced yet _acute_ hope that she doesn't remember the conversation they had that day. Then a hot, angry recognition flares on her face, and all hope is lost.

" _Jackson_." She hisses the name like a curse. Even after all that's happened, it's hard not to laugh. "The guy that rebounded with a, uh, firefighter, right? Left you in the dust and made it out like you were some big jerk for wanting better?"

"Uh...yeah. Yeah, that same guy." Maggie says, smiling with gritted teeth. She's going to have to do some refreshing on memory retention after long periods of medical comas.

"At his big age." Sabi lets out a sharp sigh and settles back against her pillow. "So... _why_ , if you don't mind me asking?"

Because he centers her world and makes her feel still. Because he makes her laugh _and_ makes her think, sometimes within the same sentence. Because by all rights he should be a snobbish, self-centered brat and consistently makes the choice to be one of the kindest and bravest people in the world. Because he places his hands on her shoulders when she's in a panic spiral and calms her down. Because he brings her food when she's hungry. Because he sees right through her when she's lying. Because when she thinks of one reason, there's always another hot on its heels.

Because she loves him and he loves her.

"... _Wow_." Sabi whispers. Maggie comes back into herself at the gentle awe in her voice. "He really showed up for you while I was out, didn't he?"

"...Yeah." She looks down at her hands, imagining Jackson's somehow-strong, somehow-slender fingers gripping hers.

"I suppose I'll have to be the judge of _that_ , once I get out of here and we catch up over some crossword puzzles."

It's a plan. Sabi's nurse comes in with food, as if summoned by their rapturous optimism, and a few stern words for her to get some extra rest. Maggie knows a cue to exit stage left when she hears one. She stands and gathers up her purse (and a dropped TV Guide that also fell on the floor). Sabi looks a little crestfallen, no doubt at their meeting being cut so short.

"So, where are you two going?"

"Hm? To dinner and dessert up in the mountains. Over by, uh, Mt. Baker. I've never been."

"Hmm." Sabi steeples her fingers together, chin lifted high and imperious. "Apology's looking good so far. Keep me updated."

Maggie sets the TV Guide on her pile and smiles.

"I will." She pauses to collect herself, for just a moment, then takes her hand. "Keep me updated. We have a _lot_ to talk about."

Sabi smiles, eyes glistening again, and squeezes her hand with a weak, yet honest grip.

"Absolutely."

Maggie leaves the hospital with her heart light and her stomach fluttering with a thousand butterflies. It might just be hope.

***

"Mascara's not too much, is it?"

"You already have dark lashes. You don't even need it."

Maggie rolls her eyes appreciatively and continues to fuss in front of the mirror. It's kind of hard to admit, even in her own head, but it's nice being spoiled. Standing here picking at minor details to the company of Amelia lounging on the toilet lid with her phone in hand, she's only _just_ now realizing how exhausting her life has been. How did she even manage to cook something edible for herself, much less the _children?_ These thoughts aren't a great accessory to her date outfit: a pink peacoat and white scarf with a knitted sweaterdress underneath.

"Okay. How do I look?" Maggie tilts her head from side-to-side to catch the light, then plucks at a wrinkle in her leggings. "I reapplied it because it was starting to rub off, but now I'm wondering if I put on too _much_ , too _little-_ "

"You know that man's jaw would drop if you showed up in a plastic bag bikini."

" _Ameliaaa._ "

Her sister chuckles and stands up, peering in with a critical eye.

"Hmm. Hair's cute, like usual. Outfit's stellar, like usual. Let me blend that eyeshadow a little more around the eyebrows, though." She washes her hands and dries them carefully. "Do you want to wear my jewelry?"

"Yeah, uh, have you gotten any new earrings?" Maggie trades places with her on the toilet, folding her hands on her knees. "I'm thinking of something to match this necklace..."

In-between comparing necklaces and talking about what define a 'casual work look' a sleek black car pulls up outside. Amelia promptly shoos her out the door and down the stairs, assuring her the house won't burn down while she's gone. Maggie's mind races ridiculously as she double-checks her purse (wallet, phone, keys-) and the sisterhouse calendar (children at Alex and Jo's for play night). She nearly slips on a patch of snow jogging down the walkway to the road. Jackson rolls down the window and leans an elbow out.

"Need a ride?"

"Depends." She pretends to shade her eyes and squints. "Do you have snacks?"

"Oh, I've got _plenty_. Vodka. Olives. Corn Pops." He grins and waves an impatient hand when she sputters. "Come on."

Jackson's always been handsome, but today he's downright...well, _effervescent_. wearing a long brown peacoat and a nearly-as-long gray scarf, the first she's _ever_ seen him wear and the sight so startling her heart twists into the world's meatiest pretzel. His skin is smooth and _glowing_ , beard lightly trimmed and curls thick, from a withered plant who could barely eat three bites of food to a lush tree. When she settles into the car's smooth leather she's flooded with his cologne, a subtle, almost spicy scent that makes the hair on her arms prickle happily. It's a lot. _It's a lot._

"You...you look _amazing_." She says, in what is no doubt the understatement of the night. Jackson doesn't seem to mind. He's always been good at meeting her halfway. He leans back a little to observe her with a languid up-and-down flick of the eyes.

"And you take my breath away."

She couldn't hide her blush for the life of her, and it's just as well when Jackson starts the car and pulls out with a half-smile. The ward must really be taking. The bags under his eyes are gone and the air around him is warm and inviting. Maggie tries to look casual and peers over at him through the flickering city lights.

"How's it feel to be driving again?"

"Feels good. Since I wasn't actually put under arrest, my driver's license is still valid. I wasn't allowed to drive while committed until I could prove I was of sound mind." He taps a finger on the steering wheel. "Still got a curfew. Just to be on the safe side, I imagine."

Maggie reaches over and takes his hand.

"You're doing _great_."

Jackson keeps his eyes on the road, a smile flickering on his face.

"...Pick a song." He squeezes her hand. "Any song."

Maggie rummages through the playlist, then blinks when she sees it's connected to the Internet. Oh, _perfect_. She pretends to deliberate when he slows to stop (since he has a difficult time taking his eyes off her at the best of times), tilting her head from side-to-side.

"... _Barbie Girl?_ " He shakes his head with the slow intensity of someone determined not to give an inch. "Hm."

"Come on, it's romantic. I feel like _your_ Barbie Girl." Maggie clasps her hands together and pitches up her voice. "Oh, Ken! Did you wear a new coat just for _me?_ "

Jackson snorts, though it's not _quite_ a laugh. Maggie feels a burning determination to get a full _ha ha_ out of him before the night's over.

"Okay. I see the vision." "If you call me Ken again, though, I'm taking us to McDonald's."

"I mean...you're handsome, you're rich, you work in _Plastics..._ "

Jackson visibly bites his tongue, half-smiling around it and pretending not to notice her eyebrow waggle. When the song's over he plays 'Never Gonna Give You Up', which is both funny and so, _so_ appropriate.

Despite the distance the drive breezes by, their conversation an easy transition from the newest articles in Seattle's local medical journals to how to properly pronounce 'gruyère' (which she's _positive_ he's just arguing to be petty). Jackson reaches out to rest his hand on hers again in the middle of her tale of the mysteriously disappearing socks. Petting her thumb fondly, yet...carefully. It reminds her of when he'd tried to pull the moves on her after that crazy helicopter trip. Cocksure as he _ever_ was, smooth as a satin jacket, and yet, despite his best efforts, she could still see the butterflies dancing. Mostly in the way he kept his hands folded, how quietly startled he'd been when she'd suggested they take things slow.

She wonders what will change. What will stay the same. The forest pulls up all around them in a slow rise as they wind up the mountain road, the city well and firmly behind them and the evening moving fast.

"So, we're doing dinner and dessert." Jackson reminds. Orange and yellow lights are starting to dot the hills in-between the tree shadows, a mixture of what seem to be houses and stores. "Order a little something on the light side. Or don't, I mean...I trust your appetite."

"Thank goodness for that, because it's going to be ruling me for the next thirty minutes." She moans as she rolls the window down a little and sucks in the sweet smoke in the air. "I'm coming for you, grill."

They park in a visitor's area near some RVs, moving up a long hill toward the peppered businesses along the mountainside. The walk is...nice. _Really_ nice. It's incredible how something as simple as moving from one point to the next can feel almost ethereal with the right person at her side. Jackson is staring up at the stars. Lost in a moment. Maggie lets herself feel a little greedy. They have a _lot_ of catch up to do. When they arrive at the restaurant's front steps she brings Jackson back down to earth by adjusting his scarf and collar, flattening the lapels of his coat _just_ right.

"...Ready?" She asks once she's done, smiling. Jackson reaches down to gently cup her face, not budging so much as an _inch_ of her coat or scarf. His way of saying she's already perfect.

"After you."

It's a rustic little place, wooden walls and floorboards broken up by golden lights. It's on the busier side, a healthy hubbub filling in the nearly empty bar and the dark karaoke stage. She's tempted to go give it a whirl, but that might be better for later. Jackson chooses a window seat overlooking the valley, though it's a little difficult to see through the glass's glittering reflection. When they're each handed a menu one option stands out immediately.

"They serve _deer_ here?" Maggie gasps. Jackson nods and frowns thoughtfully.

"Huh. Moose, too."

Maggie checks...then scowls over the edge of the menu when there is no sign of the aforementioned moose. When Jackson politely averts his gaze she double-checks to see if they offer squirrel (they don't). They _do_ , however, have plenty of incredible platters. The photography is stunning, her mouth watering as she scrolls through plates of grilled steak and fat burgers, artfully adorned with little garnishes that are practically works of art on their own. Jackson's usually the first to order, but right now he looks entirely lost, scrolling over the same page again and again like none of it is sinking in.

"Can't decide between the moose or the deer?" Maggie asks, slyly. Jackson snorts.

"No. Just been forever since I've ordered anything at a restaurant." He huffs, scratching his beard. Just once, but that's more than enough to make him look nervous. "Uh...hm."

"I mean, it's been a while since I've been on a...date." Maggie squints at him. Ah, so _that's_ what seemed off in the car. His scars are gone. "...Huh. Don't think I've seen you with foundation before."

Jackson goes still. His hand returns to his face.

"...You can tell?"

"Oh, sure! I use it sometimes. Foundation gives you this poreless look..." She trails off. "...Oh. Was I not supposed to?"

"Um. It doesn't...look _bad_ , does it?"

"No! It looks fine."

Jackson grows quiet again, leaning back and burning a hole in his menu. Maggie squirms in her seat. Somewhere she screwed up, but heck if she has _any_ idea where, much less why. The waiter pours them some water and assures they'll be right back after ushering in a family that just showed up in the doorway.

"You can't go wrong with a burger and fries. The all-American dish." She starts, again. "That's...pretty heavy, though." Maggie taps her fingers down the photos, eventually landing on a little bowl of house butternut squash soup and a festive looking salad. "This doesn't look so bad. Here."

To her relief, Jackson peers over.

"Oh, yeah, that looks pretty good. Ah, right, they have fresh fish." The tension bleeds out of him when he sees the seafood section. "Oh, I _have_ to try their steelhead with that salad."

The waiter fills up their glasses and asks if they want a drink. Jackson goes for an non-alcoholic spritzer. Then, again, they sit in silence. A very long, very odd silence. It's weird. Technically all of this has gone right, yet they look like two teenagers going out to prom with the parents sitting outside in the car. Maggie feels the overwhelming urge to burst out into laughter. Jackson, wonder of wonders, is the first to break.

"I'm sorry." He rubs his eyebrows, then runs a hand down his face. "I'm not trying to be awkward-"

"No, no, it's fine. I'm...it's fine." Maggie reaches over and takes his free hand. Jackson immediately sits up straight at that. "Okay. Let's catch up. Tell me something I don't know about you."

"...All right." He rolls his eyes to the ceiling in thought. "Well...I once asked my mother to give me the middle name Michael."

"Why Michael?" She starts, then slaps her forehead. "...Oh. Oh, I get it. Okay, but what about Janet? I mean-"

"Oh, no, no, no, I'm not done." Jackson chuckles and holds up a finger. "So I asked for Michael and she said _no_ , so then I said Michael-Janet and she actually thought about it... _then_ said no."

"Jackson Michael-Janet Avery." Maggie sounds out, carefully. Jackson goes as stiff as an operating table.

"Ah, Maggie-"

_Right._ Medical celebrity who was recently in the news. Thankfully, the chatter of the restaurant is too high for anyone to hear. Not so much as an eye in their direction. Maggie glances around once more, then sighs relief, hunches her shoulders and winces an apology. Jackson gives her a smile, though it's not enough to hide the sting of apprehension in his eyes.

"Sorry. You're fine. I just..." He swallows and nods, almost to himself. "...not yet, you know?"

"Right. Of course." She strokes his hand affectionately. "If it helps, I had to deal with some blowback walking out of the trade show."

"You didn't throw the mic stand at anyone, though. Or punch your way off the stage. Or lose your license." Jackson muses (ticking off his fingers, to boot). Maggie feels her toes curl with embarrassment. Maybe that wasn't the best example. "I'm teasing. Okay, your turn."

"Well...I once thought I could learn how to fly on a broomstick. That if I really thought hard enough it'd work. I mean, I told you I loved Harry Potter, right? I spent so much time working on mine. Chanted spells at it _every morning_ before school."

Jackson puts his chin in his hand and smiles fondly, rubbing a slow thumb over her knuckles.

"...That's so cute."

More than fond. Starry-eyed. It's hard not to think of him sitting alone at the bar all that long, long time ago. To think, she'd almost turned and walked away. Maggie squeezes his fingers.

"I have a lot of flying dreams, too."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Big yeah. I loved to climb onto the roof and wait for shooting stars so I could make a wish. My dad always told me I'd catch a cold sooner than I'd catch a star."

The more she talks, the more Jackson... _glows_. It's as if the restaurant doesn't exist at all. Their waiter brings them their orders when she's in the middle of talking about her childhood fear of randomly turning into a spider, and even while eating he watches her in a daze. Her soup is delicious, so creamy and thick she almost has to bite it. She scoops out some for Jackson to try, cupping a hand beneath the spoon and feeding it to him. He responds by carving out a slice of his fish and feeding it to her (and it's so buttery she drools on her chin in the most unsexy sight _ever_ ). It's all so corny she can feel her face heating up like a stovetop, but it's good.

It's really good.

When they go outside she's full and warm and floating. The snow crunches pleasantly beneath her shoes and for once she doesn't mind the wind, even though it's so sharp she's surprised it doesn't slice her hair in half like something out of an anime.

"We're going to go a little further up. Just up the side and around the bend."

Easy for _him_ to say. He's got legs of steel and seemingly not an ounce of sedentary fat on his whole body. After much huffing and puffing on her part (and hardly a steam cloud from Jackson) they reach the top of the hill and encounter a set of cable cars. Now that they're above the trees she can more clearly see the moon, peeking out from a few lingering clouds. There's one other pair waiting for a ride, huddled close together and taking a selfie. Jackson tugs out his phone and taps the screen.

"Good idea." He murmurs, and holds it out to snap a photo of them. He pulls it down to edit, then visibly balks at her expression. "Uh...that's an interesting smile."

Maggie snaps her mouth shut. Oops.

"Sorry. It's just...we're not...going _on_ one of those things, are we?"

Jackson huffs a white laugh and pats her back.

"Of course we are. The shop is a one-hour walk otherwise."

"That's...really high up. I mean, I'm not terrified of heights, but there's a certain level you reach when it just doesn't seem like a great idea-"

"Don't you have a lot of flying dreams?" Jackson asks, grinning when she squawks.

"That's different, Jackson! That's in my _head_."

"Oh, you'll be fine. I'll catch you."

Maggie grumbles and suffers his arm around her waist as the next empty cable car slides into view.

" _You're_ the reason I'm falling in the first place." She huffs.

Jackson blinks down at her. It's a good three seconds before she realizes what she said.

"... _Oh_." The doors open. "Um. Here we go?"

The first minute sucks. A lot. It feels a little rickety, especially when the other two climb aboard, and even their pleasant little greeting (" _Cold tonight, huh?_ ") isn't enough to lift her spirits. Then the cable car lifts, high enough to leave the mountains behind, and It's a scene straight out of a _dream_. The stars stretch out in what she can only describe as the most blue and delicate blanket, the light from the valley below speckled with pops of orange nestled between snowy white. Jackson curls his arm around her, as if sensing the whirl of emotions and using himself to steady her. He's always been good at that.

"This is...amazing." She whispers, pressing up against the glass and ignoring the lurch in her stomach. "...Wow."

Her mother traveled so much before she died. She probably saw a ton of sights like this. Maggie breathes in shakily and lets it out as carefully as she can. ...She misses her father. As magical as this night is, it's hard not to think about all the distance she still has with her family. Some of it was just the tragic turn of life, but some of it... _is_ her fault. It just is. Like always, Jackson can read her thoughts like an open book. He gives her a waist a gentle squeeze.

"Hey. If it's too much, I won't be insulted if you close your eyes."

"No, that's not it. Just...thinking about my dad." Maggie twiddles her thumbs together. "Haven't...talked to him much."

"What _is_ it about mountain ranges that gets us thinking about our fathers." Jackson hums. "Send him something."

"Like _what?_ " Maggie gapes, turning to face him better. "I can't just...text him a selfie and be like, 'hey, haven't talked to you since mom died, how's the weather'."

"Well, you don't have to phrase it _quite_ like that." Jackson says, drily. "You just have to start somewhere. How about...you send him a text just to reach out...then, when he asks how you're doing, you send him a selfie?"

Wow. He makes it sound so easy. Maggie's frown does little to waver the calm acceptance on Jackson's face. Maybe, for him, it _is_ easy. Patient as he often was, he'd never been afraid of diving into a thing headfirst. Never afraid of possibly drowning or getting burned. Before the cable car arrives at their destination, she takes a moment to snap a few photos of the valley below before the moon disappears. She's sending it to Sabi when they reach the entrance, which she has to do a double-take to appreciate properly.

...It's _adorable_.

The shop looks like it was carved straight out of the 1800's. Where the restaurant had a rustic vibe still offset with modern fixtures, this place is entirely _twee_. The mahogany wood is paired with gold and red inlining, like the entire place is a cute present just waiting to be unwrapped. Everything twinkles, from the glass cases showing what seem to be _dozens_ of pastries to the bowls and mason jars of candy. All she can smell is chocolate and butter. Jackson nods politely when the employees at the counter wave, then bumps against her side.

"Saw this while hiking last year. Little tourist attraction for Washington visitors. People get a _mean_ sweet tooth after hitting the slopes." He smiles, a touch smugly. "It's also got an art gallery."

"You don't say." Maggie whispers, faintly...then takes Jackson's hand in a claw grip. " _We're browsing._ "

Jackson chuckles, and lets himself be tugged along.

They have to sign up and pay a small sampling fee, which makes her head spin because _holy heck there is a lot to sample_. She hardly knows where to look first. The pastries all look so cute she could die, some small enough to fit in her palm and some elaborate cakes as tall as her arm. Then she finds what appears to be an alter of cheeses over by the little window tables.

"Jackson." She hisses, gripping his arm and shaking it. " _Cheese_."

"Smells good." He hooks an arm around her waist and raises his eyebrows. "Allow us to partake, my lady."

"I'm going to be made out of cheese when we're through, fine sir."

His gift to her had been a mere taste, it seems. She tries a sliver of white cheese that's so flavorful it fills what feels like her entire tongue. Jackson samples a wine flavored cheese (a red wine blend with blackcurrant and olive notes) that makes him actually close his eyes and _sway_ in place. Then he's feeding her a piece and she's died and gone straight to cheese heaven.

The food is already so lovely to look at she hardly notices the transition into the art gallery. According to the sign there are three featured artists this season, all three painters of different mediums with the unifying theme of 'relaxing and recharging'. Jackson's eyes sharpen with interest when they pass by a tall oil painting of the mountains, lovingly crafted in exaggerated periwinkle and lavender hues. Maggie pauses when she comes across a deer statue with tiny pink flowers blooming from its antlers.

"...Is that statue made entirely out of _chocolate?_ " Maggie gasps. "No...no, I think the flowers are candy. Oh my gosh, this detail. I'd probably cry if I ate this." A thought strikes her. She claps her hands together. "Oh! Weren't you taking a sculpting class?"

"Hm? Oh. Yeah." Jackson starts to reach for his phone, then quickly disguises it as adjusting his coat. Because pockets had to be adjusted, apparently. "We don't use chocolate, though. At least, I didn't taste-test."

"Do...you have any photos?" She asks, suppressing the mental image of Jackson munching on a handful of clay. "I'd love to see it."

Jackson goes quiet. He averts his gaze, mouth working from side-to-side. ...Is he? Oh, gosh. He _is_. He's getting _shy_. She's seen him get a little tongue-tied in the past (keyword: little), definitely mushy-gushy when they were getting to know each other, but this is an entirely new flavor. Maggie tries to chew away her smile as he quietly pulls out his phone and scrolls through his photos, brow furrowing into a boomerang. Not every new Jackson was a nasty surprise.

"Um. Okay, so...it's not done yet. Almost, once I finish the rocks, just a lot of fudging around with details at this point..." He shrugs and holds his phone out. "I'm working on a second."

It's an angel. She's strewn out on what seems to be a rock in the middle of an ocean, leaning up on an elbow and reaching out a hand to the sky. Her flowing curls tumble and roll into the waves to become indistinguishable from the foam. She has one wing, the other little more than a stump peeking out of her flowing dress, also rippling into the water. The level of detail is indescribable. It figures that a man who can sculpt muscle and skin would find little trouble with clay. Still. _Still_.

"Jackson, this is...wow." She looks up, smiling so hard her face aches. " _Wow._ "

Jackson, at first, doesn't quite know what expression to make. First he blinks at her, like he's not seeing quite right. Then he shuffles a little, mouth twitching on its way to a smile. Then he huffs and shrugs, in what can only be called bashful, gaze darting away from her. Despite it all, he leans in closer to bump against her side again, like he just can't stay away too long.

"...Thanks."

"No, no, I _mean_ it. This is unbelievable. Like something I'd see in an art museum or like, right here! Maybe in a fancy hotel lobby." She tilts her head, trying to capture as much detail she can in a blurry photo taken on-the-fly. "What does it mean?"

"That falling isn't always a bad thing." He says, and plucks his phone from her fingers with a smile a little more sly than shy.

The shop isn't packed, but it's far from empty, either, and they have to sidle around elderly women with no peripheral vision and the occasional child allowed to roam free without consequence. Then she sees rows of barrels and stops dead in her tracks. It was inevitable. There's an _alcohol section_ , too. A few local beers and spirits, but mostly wine. Rows and rows and rows of wine in an ornate wooden lattice intertwined with golden ribbons. Maggie bounces on the balls of her feet, leaning up to read the descriptions on the wall.

"Wine flavored cheese." She muses. "Cheese flavored wine."

"Makes sense."

"It does. _Too_ much sense."

Jackson glances at her sidelong, casually scrutinizing, and... _oh_. Right. The last time he saw her drinking was when she fled from her own trade show and got completely wasted alone in the house. Maggie puts on a smile and swings his hand back-and-forth.

"You know...I think I'll skip the wine. Probably not good on a really full stomach."

Jackson doesn't answer, at first. He leans back on his heels, tilts his head a little and dissecting her beneath the blushing lights. He was a surgeon, through and through.

"...You've been drinking a lot." It's the furthest thing possible from a question. Maggie looks away, torn between appreciation and annoyance.

"You're not the first to notice."

"I don't doubt it." He says, smoothly. "How come?"

"Just...stressed." She starts. When his expression doesn't change, as unwavering as a photograph, she sags. "... _Really_ stressed. Um. I'm...I want to drink less."

Jackson's mouth curls a little. Affectionate and understanding.

"I know we're still figuring out...everything." He takes her fingers and massages away what's left of the cold. "It feels good in the moment. Alcohol, food, a game or something to get you lost for a few hours, but...it's just a distraction. Just putting off the inevitable. I just want you to know, next time you feel the urge for a cup, my number's also just an arm's reach way."

"...Okay." She says, rubbing his hand back. "I won't forget."

"All right. Well. Good sharing, Maggie Pierce." With that he nudges her toward the little trays by the barrels. "Have a sample with me. I'm not about to try this, ah, finely aged cheese-flavored reserva wine alone."

They take the tiny shots (in tiny wine glasses that wouldn't be out-of-place in Stuart Little), hook their elbows together and toss them back. Oh. It's not good. It's _great_. Maggie covers her mouth and tries not to laugh it back up her nose. Jackson grins down at his tiny glass.

" _Phew_ , this fills me with determination." He reaches for another taste. "I'm going to need a bottle of this."

Maggie blinks. She holds up a finger.

"Wait, you played Undertale?"

Jackson's eyes light up.

"Yeah! I beat it last week, actually." He does a little bow. "To the uproarious applause of the fellow patients, I'll have you know, who collectively beat it fifteen times."

"Oh my gosh." She covers her mouth with her hands. "Okay, okay, I have to know. Who is your favorite character?"

"Toriel." He says, instantly, and Maggie is physically unable to stop from hopping up and down. "She's just so...gentle. So nurturing. Every time I saw her my heart warmed up. I also love Papyrus. He's like Koracick if he was _actually_ charming." He scoffs at his own comment. "Okay. Your turn."

"Undyne. She's just so _cool_. I mean, Undyne the Undying? How do you even come _up_ with something that badass. Not to mention she just never gives up. Also...Chara. I mean, they literally turn into a heart every time they encounter someone." She sips her new sample and squints. "So, you compared Koracick to Papyrus...who's Amelia, then?"

"Bratty." He says, without hesitation. "You're Catty."

"I am _not!_ " She gasps...then sputters. "Okay, I kind of am."

"Catty's awesome." He chuckles, licking a stray drop of wine off his lips. Maggie watches the motion happily. "All right. Do me."

"Mettaton." She flips her hair and tries to put on that affect he always does, all silky and soft. " _Very_ multifaceted and _very_ gorgeous."

Jackson mimics her hair flip right back, as best he can with his short curls.

"I took inspiration from your hair when carving." He adds over his third sample, just like _that_ , and her heart is fit to burst. "Sculpture should be done in a week. It's been a lot of introspection and not all of it pretty, so I think I'll call it the 'Cruel Angel's Thesis'."

"Wow, Evangelion _and_ Undertale." She shakes her head solemnly. "The ward turned you into a nerd."

"Hey, I watched that anime _before_ I went, thanks." Jackson pops out a pinky sipping his wine, just to make her cringe. "Still not entirely sure it wasn't a fever dream."

Maggie mimics his bougie sip, obnoxiously enough for Jackson to stick his tongue out at her. They drift away from the wine once they start to get a little warm, sampling a few of the artisan pastries. She's still not entirely sure _he's_ not a fever dream, but that's just a little too corny, or maybe a little too...something. Her memories of him had him looking like a sexy Rorschach test, but what he said to her, both into her hair and on that note he left on the counter...

"God, I miss chocolate." He mutters around a large bite, one he clearly didn't prepare for. "Mmf, hold on-"

"It's all in the chew." Maggie snickers, licking whipped cream off her fingers. "Just breathe through your nose-"

"Hey! Jackson Avery, is it?"

Then, in an instant, Jackson's eyes go dead. He swallows, carefully, and slowly turns around to face a middle-aged man and who appears to be his partner for the evening. Maggie hastily finishes up her pastry, blinking at the sudden pall in the air. She doesn't recognize them, but they _definitely_ recognize him...

"...Hm?" Jackson says, raising his eyebrows mildly. "Sorry. You must have me confused for someone else."

"Wait..." The man says, turning to his partner with a look that suggests it might've been _her_ idea to walk up to them. Oh, this is awkward. "You're not-"

"Nope."

Before they can respond Jackson takes her hand and tugs her past the wine barrels, the mutter of the couple behind them fading into the store's ambiance. Maggie winces at his grip. ...Okay. This is a panic attack. It makes sense, he's still not used to being in the thick of his own life. Jackson is attempting to look busy studying a cheese sculpture adorned with a grape necklace, but it's not taking.

"Jackson, are you-"

She quickly snaps her mouth shut. Right. Don't be too obvious.

"Um, it's kind of stuffy in here. Mind if we step out?"

Jackson slowly nods, eyes flicking and scrolling at nothing in particular.

"...Yeah."

They walk out onto the little sightseeing porch, currently (thankfully) empty. The light on the porch is just small enough to leave them swathed in darkness; she watches Jackson lean both elbows on the railing, twisting his hands together and staring hard at the stretch of mountains. He's breathing fast. Doing his best to disguise it, of course, because he's _Jackson_ and he puts on a mask more easily than being _himself_ , but she can still see the puffs of breath spreading rapidly into the night. Maggie sidles next to him, close enough for their shoulders to brush. Not close enough to get warm, though the wine in her belly is doing a fine job of maintaining her temperature.

"...I'm sorry." Jackson says, after the minutes have gotten colder and his breathing has slowed. His black hole shadow shifts with a weight that says more than any apology. "I'm sorry. It's not you."

"I'm glad..." Maggie starts, then hastily corrects. "That it's not _me_ , I mean. I'm not glad about _this_." When Jackson just hunches and covers his eyes, as if trying to hide himself away, her voice trickles to a tiny whisper. "About... _any_ of this. ...Jackson?" Nothing. "Jackson, _please_. Don't shut me out."

"I'm not. I promise, I'm not. It's...I'm not used to...this, yet." She can see his hand trembling, despite the fact he's little more than a tall shadow outside of the light's bubble. "God, why _tonight?_ "

"That beard isn't Clark Kent's glasses? You're also still near Seattle..." Maggie says, sadly. Jackson snorts, hard enough to sound genuine, and leans back up.

"...I fell off a bike when I was eight."

Maggie tilts her head. Are they still sharing new facts? That's fine with her, especially with how serious he's gotten. Jackson rolls his hands together repetitively.

"I was trying to do a trick to impress my uncle Norbert. Crashed so bad I broke my arm and scraped the hell out of my hip. My mother was _furious_ , but, for once, that wasn't the worst of it. Whenever I got on a bike afterward I'd feel that exact same fear. Like I'm crashing already, even though I _just_ sat on the saddle and put a foot on the pedal. It's numbed as I've grown up, but years and years later I still feel it. That...flicker of hesitation. Doubt. No matter what." He nods, morosely. "I don't know...if _this_ will ever go away."

It might be a confession, an apology or an explanation. Knowing Jackson, it's probably all three. Maggie leans against his shoulder and chews on his words, trying to think of the right way to nudge him back into it all. Not too blunt. Something to help. Not too blunt. Something...to help.

"You know, it was pretty quiet in that last gallery room. I don't think we saw that one yet." She squeezes his elbow. "I've still got a few more selfies to take before the night's done."

Jackson stares off into space for a moment. Then he nods and leans back up.

"...Sure. I'm a little behind on selfies, myself."

The last little gallery is empty, the families milling by the pastries and the couples sitting with their wine samples. The paintings are predominantly done on wood, with the whorls and curls of mahogany and oak showing through the brushstrokes. It's subtle and very lovely, and she can't resist snapping a few photos and sending them to Sabi. Jackson drifts behind her, his hand on the low of her back reminding her again of fire and snowfall. The quiet does him good. He seems to unthaw in the low lights, leaning against her as they linger in front of paintings as tall as the wall and as small as her hand.

"Starting to wonder if I should pose while drinking wine." He murmurs, crossing his arms and tilting his head like a true art critic. "You can get some seriously good angles."

Maggie tries to think of something funny. Anything but that stupid, awkward night. She can't. She can't.

"...So..." Jackson straightens to attention at her tone. "...after much deliberation and much good food I finally remember kissing you that one night after the trade show and, um...I'm sorry I put you in that position."

"You have nothing to apologize for." He nudges her with his shoulder. "I'm not mad."

That's not all of it, though. Not even _close_ to all of it. Maggie looks past him, up at an oil painting of a woman staring out a rainy window with a glass of wine in one hand, the droplets from the raincloud dripping into her cup. What she _wants_ to say is something flirty and clever, like, " _Good, because I've been practicing my non-drunk kisses_." Maybe something silly like, " _Not even when I tried to swan dive into the fireplace?_ ". What comes out instead is:

"...What do you want from me, Jackson?"

She holds her elbow and waits through it. Through the sound of Jackson slowly leaning up and shuffling behind her to slide his arms around her waist. Through the sound of his breathing, slow and meticulous as he forms his response, heartbeat pounding a firm contrary against her back. Like the tides her mother warned her of back in Hawaii, she knows it's coming. Just like a growing tide, that doesn't change the fact it'll sweep her off her feet.

"...I want to hold you through the rough times. Lift you up during the good." He rests his chin on her shoulder. "I want to take you out to dinner. Make you dinner. Breakfast, lunch, brunch, elevensies, second breakfast, whatever other silly words they have for meals." Maggie bites her lip, her smile trembling. Jackson huffs, a little, but the low dip in his voice is anything but humorous. "...I want to water you. Help you bloom."

It's a lot. It's a whole, whole, _whole_ lot. Maggie takes in a shaky breath, trying with all her might to translate her heartbeat into English. Jackson fills in the gap with his characteristic, beautiful ease, pressing his nose into her cheek.

"I _love_ you, Maggie. I love you so much it leaves me breathless." He gives her waist a firm squeeze. "You don't have to say it back. I have to earn that, too."

Maggie sinks against his chest. She's not sure how exactly it works, even days later, but somehow he understands everything she wants when she squeezes his wrist.

His hand pets her stomach in a slow, affectionate circle. It snakes low. Then a little lower. Somewhere in-between her navel and her hip her mind reminds her she's in a shop, in _public_ , that someone could walk in at any time and round a corner and expose them. It's also been an eternity since he's touched her like this, _and_. Jackson's touch is exploring, at first, as if he's figuring out the gaps as he goes along, drifting from hip to inner thigh and back. Then he dips in just a little further...and figures out _exactly_ what he wants. Maggie arches her neck against the curve of his shoulder as he earns her, one press and squeeze at a time.

He was always so confident in everything he did, until he suddenly wasn't, until he suddenly is. Jackson flicks his fingers beneath the waistband of her leggings, dips back in to cup between her legs and caress where she's growing infuriatingly warm. His hand is dangerous, but his mouth is sweet, dappling gentle kisses on her cheek, her earlobe, her jaw. This man is drowning in her, when he'd been so skittish around public attention, and she should say something, move or just turn around, but she doesn't want to. She just wants _him_.

Maggie rocks back against him, enough to feel just how much he wants her, and Jackson's breath goes _coarse_. His self-control trembles each movement as he rolls his hips against her ass, his beard scratching when he burrows his face into her neck, as if _that's_ where he can breathe. His index and middle finger start to pet her, _beautifully_ , prodding at the wetness clinging her underwear to her skin, and, and, _and_. Maggie shakes, her breath coming out short, unreliable, the ache in her stomach reaching a pitch. Her head is barely above water now, because now she's thinking how quick it could be if they slipped into the darkest corner and-

" _Jackson._ "

She finally turns around to face him, but, God, she's spinning. His eyes are _burning_ , seaglass in shadow, the indescribable smell of him mingled with chocolate and wine. He's still clutching her, forehead pressing to hers and close enough he could bite again so easily-

"We...we should grab some treats for the kids, right?" She says, once she's swallowed once or thrice. "Call it a night?"

"Y-Yeah." He agrees, leaning forward to nip her lip, then tug, then hold, mumbling around her. "Harriet...would love the strawberry shortcake." Anyone could walk in, they should hustle, but Jackson is tilting his head and lapping deep in-between each pant- "And the..." He rolls his tongue, wet and sweet- "...chocolates."

"Mm-hmm." She sighs against his chin and kisses that scratchy beard, just to feel the tickle. "I think I'll grab the cookies for Bailey and Ellis, then the...the bear claw for Zola."

They gather up goodie bags. Jackson purchases one of the little wooden paintings (another artist's rendition of the mountains). It's a brilliantly, horribly tense walk out of the shop and to the cable cars. An achingly, painfully slow ride down to the stop and back down the hill to the car. The moment they kick snow off their boots, snap the car door shut and pull up the tinted windows it's a freefall of clawing hands. Jackson curls over her and pressers her into the seat, kissing her like he's only got a few minutes left on the planet. After all that's passed, the both of them might as well.

The feel of his broad back beneath her hands is an instantaneous drug. She's in the middle of it all and _still_ she needs more. Maggie closes her eyes and languishes in the feel of his shoulderblades rolling beneath her palms as he rocks against her, sighing when he nuzzles past her hair to find a spot on her neck and suck. She _never_ wants out of this car. She wants to drown in the scent of him. It's only inevitable, when he moves to her ear and bites, hot breath drumming through his teeth.

"Are you still on-" Jackson asks as he tugs off his scarf, each breath a hoarse punch followed by a sticky kiss. Maggie wriggles beneath him, trying to kick off her shoes _and_ keep him so close she doesn't know where she begins and he ends.

"Yeah, yeah, didn't want to go through the trouble of-" She accidentally knocks her knee into his hip trying to tug down her leggings. "-switching again, sorry, sorry-"

Jackson mumbles something as he shrugs out of his coat, then his sweater, a husky promise that shivers into the pit of her stomach. Then the last shred of clothing is gone, and the painful months with them. It's an electric snap. His skin is furnace hot, chest a happy scratch against her breasts. She can _feel_ his heart speed up when she curls her legs around his waist, and she's so happy to know he still loves that she can hardly think. Maggie accidentally clacks her teeth when they kiss again, but he just chuckles into her mouth, and it's distantly she realizes she got that beautiful laugh out of him after all.

"Doors locked?" She manages, when her higher brain functions remind her that she's not in the comfort of her own home. Jackson smiles, crookedly.

"Bears can't open doors."

"No, but nosy _campers_ can."

Jackson just laughs, and Maggie has no choice but to roll her eyes and pretend to ignore him when he kisses beneath her chin and hums his affection. Then he captures her mouth in his once more they continue to catch up. Not through words, but through touches that shake and grips that hurt.

The car is still cold from sitting in the snow, so they tangle themselves in each other, a living furnace of sighs and skin. Maggie tells him he's an irreplaceable part of her gravity, when he sinks into her and she clenches around him, to never let go as long as she lives. Her nails in his back tell him what's taken _her_ breath away hasn't been the dinner or the valley or the perfect view of the stars, but the sound of his laugh. Jackson is heavy. Jackson is warm. Every thrust she's breathing a little sweeter, and every half-bitten moan into her neck she breathes a little deeper.

Jackson tells her he _never_ wants to miss out on them again when he bites her ear and groans with need. He tells her she's joy incarnate, and his peace, and one of his favorite reasons for living when he hooks her leg over his shoulder for her favorite spot and grinds her into the seat, the only sound louder than her gasps the creak of leather. Maggie drags fingers down his scalp, just to feel him twitch inside her, and gets that familiar growl he does when he's tipping over the edge of reason, when all there is the _now_ and the _want_. A glimpse of the old Jackson within the new Jackson, knotted and too much and perfect.

Then he's crushing her into the leather and moving faster, hard enough to knock her breathless for a new reason, and she arches and scratches at his back and clutches all the Jacksons to her as she starts to fall.

***

The ride back home is quiet, in the best sort of way.

Jackson after sex is a Jackson she cultivates _all_ on her own. A man at his most peaceful and most content, eyes just a _touch_ glazed and skin glowing in a way it wasn't just a few hours ago. Maggie gets a sneaking feeling he sees something similar in her, because every time they slide to a red light he rubs her knuckles with the slow smugness of someone who did a job well done. It's hard to keep from smiling, even when she asks the question she'd rather put off as long as possible.

"When do you have to be back at the ward?"

Jackson taps a finger on the steering wheel.

"I...don't have to be back tonight. Earned a little off-site leave. Have to be back by tomorrow afternoon, though."

"Ah, that's good. Going to see Harriet?"

"April has her for the next week, actually."

"Oh." Her heart flutters. "Um...do you want to come stay with me tonight, maybe?"

She hopes to see him smile at that. Maybe flirt a little, with his perfect balance between clever and casual. Jackson doesn't do either of those. He stares straight ahead, rolling his jaw and focusing hard on the road. Maggie feels the first hot pop of frustration through the sweet high they've been riding on ever since they snuck out of the shop opening like a pair of teenagers. She can't have him going mysterious on her now, or dissociating or pulling into himself to rummage through his wreckage without her. The ride is silent all the way through Seattle's outer limits and through the city, right until they pull up to the sisterhouse and he turns the engine off.

"Only if you... _want_ me to." Jackson says, and the relief that seeps out of her could flood the car. "I didn't bring it up because I didn't want to seem pushy, not with everything so..."

He trails off, meaningfully, watching her with a look that says he wants to be a little selfish and is holding himself back with every ounce he has in him. Maggie works through the instinctive irritation she gets when people hide things from her, studying the cautious edge to his shoulders and how he still doesn't quite look at her. She picks up her gift bag and double-checks her purse, then steps out of the car with a nod of the head. Jackson steps out after her, taking her elbow and leading her over the freshly fallen snow to the front steps.

The porch light flicks on. Maggie stands in the light and stares up at him. What feels like hundreds of years ago he'd tapped on the door and asked to step into her heart. It's only fitting they'd take this next step here, at the very beginning (or close to it). She takes his face in both hands and brushes their foreheads together.

"Please stay." She asks, and that's all he needs to click on his car lock and follow her inside.

The sisterhouse is so still they could hear a pin drop. They tiptoe through the foyer and living room, flicking on lights as needed and sidling around one another to take off their coats, then him to get a glass of water and her to double-check the whiteboard schedule for any new updates while she was out (just a note from Amelia to ' _have fun!!!_ '). Once they're done they head upstairs and to her room. Jackson retreats to her bathroom to scrub off his face. Maggie sits on the bathtub edge, detangles a few knots and politely looks elsewhere when he reaches for her makeup remover.

When they finally settle into bed they fuck again, careful and slow. She leans close as best she can with her hands stamped on his chest, watching Jackson trap his moans in his throat as he bucks and writhes beneath her.

Heady as the afterglow is, when she sinks into bed after her body's muscle memory still expects to feel the faint leftovers of loneliness tucking in, too. It's quickly corrected. Tonight it's not an all-encompassing gap, but a heavy, warm weight at her back, shuffling beneath the blankets to get comfortable. Before she reaches over to flick off the bedside light she glimpses Jackson's flushed and tired face against the pillows: the shadows beneath his eyes and the faint cut on his cheekbone, beard just thick enough to disguise the faint discoloration left by his nails that one awful day. Through his eyelashes he watches her, too, lost to a rare moment of peace. They've seen all of each other, and then some.

The lightbulb's hardly cooled before she's drifting off in a crooked angle half-on and half-off his chest and stomach, his arm tossed sloppy over her lower back in a half-hug that also dozed off. She dreams of him, and somehow, knows he's dreaming of her.

* * *

_There is love in doing and there is love in being._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Me:** "don't do it"
> 
> **Me:** "come on these two are grown and know better"
> 
> **Me To Me:** "jackson fingerbangs maggie in an art gallery confirmed"
> 
> You _may_ have noticed Undertale keeps cropping up in this fic. If you've played the game, then you no doubt got a kick out of this interaction. If not, then allow me to indulge a little:
> 
> Undertale is one of my favorite multiple-choice RPGs of _all time_. It's a modern classic, a great form of therapy and an inspiring piece of art, all in one catchy and adorable package. I found it a fitting juxtaposition to put in a story about mental health, digging beneath the surface for the truth and choosing alternate routes to devastating problems. The power of simple determination and love. If you haven't fallen in love with this game yet, give it a try. Trust me when I say it, against all odds, manages to outdo its own already staggering hype. also the soundtrack fucking **slaps**
> 
> Let me just say, again: I am so happily overwhelmed by all your beautiful, sweet, insightful comments. Just...wow. _Wow_. Rest assured I'll respond to comments soon...and, holy crap, I can't believe we've just got two chapters left! Eleven and twelve are going to crank up the tenderness _and_ the thrills up, too, so strap in. I'm so happy to share this whole ride with everyone.


	11. the glass goes

**Song Inspiration:** "Higher" by Tash Sultana (BEDROOM RECORDING)

*

_oh no air_

_you want to take me higher_

_i know you can_

* * *

_Surviving isn't enough._

_Animals survive. Plants survive. Humans, though...humans are defined beyond reasons to live for the next meal or breeding session. Those that aren't able to, for whatever cluster of reasons has been given them by fate, can lose touch with that humanity. Wonder what it's all for. No matter where we come from, whatever circumstance weighs heavy on our shoulders, we try to lift above the need of survival, somehow, someway. Through art, through the Bible, through dizzying passion that flares hotter than we can control._

_All to answer the question that burns within us. Why do we survive...and why do we live?_

* * *

_They sway on the porch swing in a sea of stars._

_She comes back here so often nowanights. Maybe it's a little slice of the world that can only be accessed by dreams. It could also just be her love for the great beyond and a regular fixture in her subconscious. Science and romance remain forever fickle friends. Maggie swings her legs to swing the swing, laughing when Jackson does the same and sends them soaring above the clouds. They move so high up it seems there's nowhere else to go but down, but she's not worried. Jackson is her gravity. He'll pull her back where she needs to be._

_The constellations form those she loves. Link is bright and laughing, his teeth made out of planets and dazzling. Alex doesn't smile, but he's never been one to smile often, his eyes roving satellites following the laughing children of the sisterhouse glittering around him. Meredith is faded, hardly more than a few broken lights forming a face heavy with the burden of loneliness. She'll be home soon, but soon can feel the farthest away of all. Maggie searches the sky for Sabi, and she might have to swing somewhere else to get a better view._

_Jackson says he'll pocket a meteor to take home to Harriet. Maggie can't help but kiss his cheek. His love for his daughter has always been one of the most beautiful things about them. A breeze catches their swing and drifts them down, away from the family of stars and closer to the clouds. When the soft grey overwhelms them both she fears it'll be a sequel to her nightmare; where her love's heart had fallen out of his body and left him a glass shell. Jackson takes her hand, warm as a star, and just as she knew he would, she's no longer worried._

_He says, "I love you, Maggie."_

_He says, "Sleep in a little bit."_

_He says, "I'll be here when you need me."_

_Her name on Jackson's tongue echoes, and she could stay up here forever._

***

He's back to mornings.

They're no longer an elusive ghost, slipping through his fingers before he can so much as clench a fist. He's no longer rolling out of bed in the afternoon and mumbling through an apology to the nurses, however little they cared in the first place. When the sun flickers through the curtains he's coming alive _just_ like he used to. Breathing easily and thinking ahead of schedule, just like he used to. He's healing, maybe...or maybe it's the warm body beside him, curled like a letter and making the morning brighter without so much as a word.

Jackson rolls out of Maggie's bed and shuffles off to the bathroom to wash his face.

For a minute he idles, debating the chai facewash or the lemon-ginger moisturizer. The sisterhouse was always a lovely place to stay, most particularly for its soothing smells and endless little comforts. He'd spent much of his college days at his fraternity -- when he wasn't traveling -- and slept over at more than a few of his guy friends' dorms (who always asked why he didn't want to crash at his mansion). Women made _all_ the difference. Jackson goes with the moisturizer, then brushes his teeth and flosses. Tries the sugar scrub, because he's always been curious about those, then rolls on the last of Maggie's beeswax balm (with a mental promise to buy her another later).

His pants are still strewn on the toilet lid. He reaches into the pockets for his foundation and dabs a little on his cheekbone and jawline. He's in the final stretch. Two more months until all of this will be _his_ normal again.

It's a few hours to the ward, traffic permitting. If he's to make it in time for curfew, he needs to leave as soon as possible to crest after the morning rush. Jackson rolls on his sweater and tugs on his pants, mulling the merits of swinging by the grocery store for a deli sandwich (eating the sisterhouse's food feels too bold, still-). Someone mutters through the walls, a high, meandering little voice that suggests one of the kids sleeptalking, and his heart patters at the thought of seeing Harriet in a few days. He's halfway reaching out to Maggie's shoulder before he stops himself. If he wakes her, he won't be able to leave.

Those eyes like the shadow of a mountain against the sunset...they'll wash over him and he'll be right back in this bed. Sunk, and happier than he could _ever_ imagine being.

A cluster of birds start chirping outside, followed by a pair of children calling out to each other. He studies Maggie's face in profile, her brows soft and her mouth slack against her bundled wrists. He reaches down to trace his thumb along her cheek. Tucks a stray coil behind her ear, the one always popping out and needing a bobby pin for one of her work buns. ...His angel. Jackson leans down and kisses her forehead, then her brow, then her cheekbone. He whispers things he'll tell her a second time, then grabs his coat and heads downstairs as quietly as possible as not to wake the kids.

Two more months.

***

January 30th, 2020

_almost at my previous weight. snacked for the first time since I was committed (pretzels). went on a jog with george. talked about sports and greek food. it was kind of nice. i've never been alone, not raised how I was, but i've often been lonely. realized this while watching television in the lobby with the game group. gonna teach my daughter the difference between being lonely and alone. she doesn't deserve to go through all the...glass._

*

"You've been doing better with closed doors lately."

Jackson looks up from his clipboard.

"...Hm?"

Barnes swings his leg over the other and leans languidly in his chair. There's a glimmer of interest in his eye, _very_ much a sign to pay close attention. Not that he really did the opposite. Being read like an open book is one of his most surprising addictions, and something he's going to have to figure out once he puts on his Avery face for the world and goes back to it all.

"Closed doors. When you first got here they made you skittish. Sometimes induced a panic attack."

"Yeah. I asked you to keep them open..." Jackson murmurs, twisting around to look at the door. It's closed. "...Huh."

That seems to be all Barnes has to say on the topic, because he promptly goes back to flipping through his book. A silent nudge for Jackson to continue on whatever it is he feels like talking about this session. They've gotten to the point where _he_ leads more than the therapist, which is both an elating and nervewracking development. He was getting ever closer to making his own decisions without someone over his shoulder. Making his own failures _and_ bulling through them. Jackson rolls his mouth thoughtfully. ...No. Not bulling through.

Talking through. _Leaning_ through.

"...I've been thinking about what it means to be alive."

Barnes shows he's listening in many ways. He swiftly slips a bookmark between the pages and folds it closed. Jackson's breath grows tight, his body's physical warning of what'll happen if he lets it loose. He continues, because if he doesn't he'll stop and break again.

"I've outlived a lot of people. My...friend and mentor. Mark Sloan. He's the one that saw my potential in plastics. My friend and ex-girlfriend, Lexie. Grey's sister. Derek. Grey's husband. She and I, we...I don't know. Her grief isn't mine. I'm not going to try and claim it. But I've felt the weight." His heart presses _hard_ against his ribs, a plead to end the conversation and breathe about something else, because it's too much, still. Too much nothing that's somehow the heaviest thing in the world. Jackson shakes. "The...questions."

"Survivor's guilt." Barnes says, simply. It feels stupidly plain to put it like _that_ , but...that's what it was. That's what it was.

"Vic didn't want to talk about it. Losing her, um...fiance. She said surviving wasn't something she felt guilty about. I still don't believe her, but that's not my business. Not anymore. Wasn't to begin with." The little admissions slip out so easily now. "I'm figuring out...I'm _here_ now. If I don't make the most of it, then I _should_ feel guilty. If I don't leave people better for having met me, if I don't raise my daughter right and save as many lives as possible, then the guilt is mine."

The admittance sounds decent enough to his ears. It's the end result of finall confronting reality in pockets, sobbing into his knuckles at three in the morning or pulling out chunks of his beard in the bathroom once he finished a public lunch. He doesn't need to bring those up. For all they've spoken, his therapist can sometimes just tell.

"That's a powerful revelation. Far from an easy one." Barnes reaches up to slide fingers along his impeccable style, eyes roaming through another conclusion. "...You don't sound entirely convinced."

There it is. Just like a book. _Just_ like a book. Jackson wrings his hands together, the sound papery and agitated and still nothing like the Jackson Avery he needs to be. The limbo between the hell he nearly slipped into and the bliss he was chasing after is still too _wide_. A handful more weeks here, then he'll be back in his world and trying to balance it on his shoulders. For all that he's learned about compartmentalizing and grief and anger, he's also learned _fear._ Fear not just of failure, but achieving the greatness he was always capable of...then dropping it again.

That's what Maggie told him, drunk and loopy in his arms after a good day gone bad: that he could so easily send all of this crashing down again. He doesn't want that. He's _done_ self-sabotaging. He wants to spend long nights reading medical books on the couch and detangling her hair. He wants to wake up beside her and tease her about morning breath when his is far worse. he wants to look into her eyes and be reminded of all the things he loves. Coffee and leather. Sunsets and black diamonds. The fear and lust and loathing knot around each other in his chest, too much to be pieced apart with the last few minutes of the session.

"...I just want to give her the world."

Barnes knows what he's talking about here, too.

"And you will." He says, simple as ever. "Piece-by-piece."

***

February 4th, 2020

_played cards with bill and mateo. mateo had an attack at the table, sat with him alongside the nurses. he yelled at all of us. it's hard being alone when that happens, but at the same time you want nothing more than to be alone. ben's birthday is coming up. if i get out on time, gonna get him something nice. miss showing people how much i care about them. Trigger: none today._

*

He gets a visitor on a sunny Friday afternoon, after he's finished his third sculpture and put it on the rack with all the other patients'.

Malani is wearing a new pair of glasses. They're a bright gold, popping against her dark skin, and her hair has been trimmed into feathered waves that dust her shoulders. Her sleeves are short enough to see her arms, lightly scarred and nicely healed. Everyone in the lobby stares. His first urge is to rush to his room and fuss himself into something resembling the doctor she knew, but _that_ thought automatically makes no sense whatsoever, because the doctor she knew had been a glass explosion and gossip news story. The young woman has gone from hopeful to nervous, and it's then he realizes he's stared far too long at the past and not enough at the now.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, I think I still have clay on my shirt-" Jackson starts, unwilling to leave her standing awkwardly by the receptionist table. To his amazement she just laughs. "Not used to people seeing me like this-"

"It's good to see you like this, actually. I was afraid it would be...worse." She peers at him up and down all over, quietly observant as he's known her to be. "You look _great_ , Dr. Avery."

"Still look thirty-seven, I hope." He chuckles. Malani winces politely.

"...No?"

It's the perfect segue for a laugh and a hug, but he's not feeling it. Nothing of the sort. Jackson slowly stands up straight and breathes in the air needed for the words she needed. Saying sorry would just be spinning the same wheels after she'd extended her olive branch. He _was_ sorry that all of that happened, that would probably never change, but redemption was about the injured party. Always.

"...Thank you for your letter." He holds out his hand. For respect and closure, both. "I...thank you."

Malani asks to hug him instead, and _that_ in of itself is such a great gesture in of itself he can't help but feel grateful. All over again.

"...I'm practicing violin covers of Michael Jackson songs for my trips." She says when she pulls back. "Want to hear a preview?"

Jackson holds out his elbow, which she takes, and leads her outside.

"I'd be _honored_."

***

February 7th, 2020

_mom is back to trying to contact me again. i have to figure out whether to say no and get an argument, or pretend i didn't see it and have her freak out and show up out of nowhere. it's like i can never win. Trigger: medical tests(?), thinking about when I was studying for my boards and she also showed up out of nowhere. messy._

*

He's back to paparazzi, too. They find him when he's leaving Ben's house after his birthday lunch, heart light and stomach full of Bailey's new lasagna recipe.

Nearly five months ago he had to sneak around Grey-Sloan under the cloak of evening and a heavy wind, the sound of cameras clicking and chattering questions dogging at his heels. Maggie standing in the parking lot had been the angel he'd begged for _and_ somehow received, still the clearest memory out of the bundle. Out of his mind as he was that day, his instinct to step carefully around the news circuit was ever in his bones. His blood. An Avery, through and through.

He thinks about it as he stands on the sidewalk with his bag of birthday cookies and sudden bad luck, watching what _seems_ to be a nearby neighborhood incident take a new turn. The house across the street has its door open, a police car sitting in the driveway. The only people outside are press. These are barely reporters, though. Nothing but a gaggle of interns and sleazeballs with too much time on their hands. Ready to peel someone's life back apart for a scoop, just after they got done stitching it together again.

"Jackson Avery? _Jackson Avery!_ "

"Your timing is impeccable. We just got off the scene of an alleged domestic violence dispute. We heard you were committed for aggravated assault, but never got _your_ side of the story-"

"Dr. Avery, do you still have custody of your daughter-"

Today is warmer. Not warm. It's windy, the air smells like freshly turned soil and what might be a nearby coffee stand catching the breeze. A mic presses up to his face. A camera lens. Another mic. The fact he's smelling what's around him, and not blood and gunpowder and the salt from his own sweat, means he's good. The fact he's not rushing off to disappear, but holding his head _high_ and staring into the aggressively curious and sociopathically vacant stares of reporters and their interns, means he's better.

He's better.

"...I was sick."

The frantic mutters scatter into silence. He learned something of possession with his first clay angel. Something similar fills him up now, calm as he used to get with blood on his gloves and monitors beeping in his peripheries. Jackson stares into the black circle of the camera.

"Mental illness isn't always as obvious as smashing something to pieces or screaming at a loved one. It's the fact you can't remember why you used to love your favorite hobby. It's why you only feel the need to sleep, but can never fall asleep. There's help out there, but you have to ask for it." _Now_ he looks to the 'reporters', thoroughly undone by the fact he hasn't answered a single direct question. "Maybe you could look to your own mental health, as well. Why you feel so empty inside the moment someone else's life isn't yours to peel apart and criticize."

They're dead silent for only a second, but it's as sharp a victory as any successful surgery he's had.

"Dr. Avery, will you tell us about-"

"Jackson Avery, sir-"

"If I could have just a word-"

His Lyft arrives, then, and takes no time pulling away from the curb the second the door clicks shut. Jackson reaches into his bag and dabs at the frosting, licking it off his fingers. He didn't do it for them, his reputation _or_ the Avery Foundation. He did it for those that needed it, because he's a doctor, and doctors save lives, whatever way it took.

***

February 11th, 2020

_i want to be happy with no strings attached._

*

_i'd love to sit and talk, when you have time, jackson, 1:42 p.m._

For all he knows she's changed her number and he's poking at a dead line. Jackson sighs, disconnects the call and puts his phone back in his pocket.

It's a good day for jogging. Still a little frosty up on the slope, but the very first notes of spring are being coy and showing off some warmer weather. It won't last, not with another few hard snowfalls between Seattle and a full bloom, but that's all the more reason to savor it. Jackson wolfs down his breakfast (much to the approving commentary of Darla), then tugs on his hoodie and winter boots (better safe than sorry). He chats a little with Bill and Mateo in the lobby, then heads outside for a jog.

His blood pumps nicely in the brisk air, the trees crystallized from last night's drizzle and the sidewalks carefully paved to push back ice. He hasn't spoken to Vic since she visited his apartment to retrieve her hoodie.

"I fucked up pretty badly, Diane." Jackson pants as he moves up the slope. "Pretty...damn badly."

An overdue confession, to say the least. It's been one of the worst thoughts all these long months, thinking about her baring witness to all he did to so many people, with Maggie the tragic centerpiece. What a _miserable_ thing for Diane to behold up in heaven after leaving on a blessing. He'd deluded himself a few times cooped up in his room with panic muffling his higher sense. Thinking that if he avoided sending up the right prayer he could... _hide_ , from the truth he made.

"I'm going to..." He pauses when his legs start to ache, jogging in place and catching his breath. "...I _am_ making it up to her. Piece-by-piece."

The sun twinkles on, his only answer a warm breeze that glides up the slope like a companion. He clenches his fists and makes his way up, thrilling at the confident burn buzzing through his thighs.

"I think about you often." He jogs past the bench, then the copse of trees, the ward spreading out below him with the city twinkling in the distance like a promise. "When we meet again, I'll treat you to coffee."

When he clocks back in a nurse he's seen in passing a few times before and the ward's head doctor pull him into one of the meeting rooms for a talk.

He's _immediately_ nervous. The entire time he sits in the chair he feels like a kid who's waiting in the principal's office, thoughts racing well out of his grasp. ...Was it because he arrived a few minutes late when Alex drove him back? Will his license remain under suspension? Is he not living up to expectations and going to stay longer? The head doctor shakes his hand and offer him hot chocolate he refuses. Compliments his dedicated jogging regimen and makes a basic joke about his growing belly fat. Then the conversation proceeds true, with questions and statements made concerning his stay that make his head spin.

Then they let him go. Jackson drifts to the cafeteria and sits down at one of the tables. He sips tomato basil soup with his chin in one hand, watching the melting snow twinkle outside the window.

He's being discharged early.

The rest of the day is in a haze. At first he thinks it's a dissociative spell. Always happens when he needs it least, though not as often as it used to. Then he thinks it's shock, understandably off the heels of an unexpected decision. Then, eventually, his brain dispenses words that used to feel correct months ago. Gracious. Wondrous. Happy. He's going to go back to Harriet. Back to Maggie. Back to medicine. It's happiness. Pure, unfiltered _joy_ , arriving almost on time. Barnes doesn't even bother to feign surprise when he shares this, and it's just as well, as he definitely had something to do with it.

"Your progress has been messy, yes, and that's _precisely_ it. We have patients who come here and see very little growth, hoping that staying quiet and obedient for a few weeks will be enough to let them off the hook. All they end up doing, though, is delaying their growth." He gestures to him with a sweep of his hand. "First two months you stayed here you kicked a hole in your bedroom wall, had an episode in the lobby and passed out in the grass."

Jackson winces. Not his finest moments, that's for sure. Barnes is undeterred.

"You also learned the source of many of your compartmentalizing issues, named your abusers and developed essential coping habits for the day-to-day. You also saved a man's life, talked a patient through a panic attack and befriended one of our most, er... _troublesome_ patients. All of this, from the most painful to the most successful, was part of your growth. Pat yourself on the back, because you've earned it."

Another emotion comes, right on time. Hot and rolling down his face to drip onto his jeans, one by one by one. Barnes hands him his tissue box.

"I'm so _proud_ of you, Jackson."

Oh. That was probably the last thing he should've said. It makes the tears come hard as a punch, knocking the wind right out of him. Jackson feels the cold hand of panic reach through his heart and squeeze. His hands shake.

"W-What if I have another breakdown?" He swallows. "What if I _lose it again?_ "

"You know how to spot the warning signs." Barnes holds up a calming finger. "You've also learned how to ask for help, which I daresay is one of the biggest barriers facing most of my patients. You're _far_ better off than you were."

Jackson rubs his face. Rubs at his beard, now fully grown back. Rubs at the scars on his knuckles, faded to a faint silver that only glints when the light catches.

"...Damn. I give a whole new meaning to the term 'silver spoons', don't I?" He wheezes, lamely, covering his face when he laughs at his own joke.

They end the session, like the dozens of sessions before, with coffee. Instead of retreating to his room to nap he sits in the lobby with a few of the other patients, an indie movie playing on the television and filling the room with an ambient hum. Darla sits beside him in the middle of a dramatic scene between two dock workers and works on her blanket. Her hands are too shaky for sculpting, but crocheting has been her favorite thing for weeks.

"What're you thinking about, son?"

"I'm...going back home sooner than usual." Jackson mumbles, hands folded over his stomach. Speaking it into existence cracks the glass. "It was going to be near the end of March, but I'm being released on good behavior."

Darla takes a moment to slip back on a stray thread that's fallen off her needle.

"Leaving me again, huh?"

Jackson shifts against the bundle of throw pillows he's sunk into, studying the mournful cast that settles over the old woman's face, mingled with a little resentment and what could be acceptance. Maybe someday there'd be a cure for dementia. A preventative approach or transformative healing process, whichever came first. Until then it was casting light around the shadow. Jackson scoots over closer and leans over to give her a hug. She's close to one of her moods, he can tell by the fact she doesn't hug him back, but it needs to be said.

"Thank you for being my friend." He whispers. "I know I wasn't always easy to be around, but...thank you."

She's so small. He feels her slowly slacken in his arms, lined right up with a sigh.

"...Never _do_ know what you're talking about sometimes, Davey." Darla huffs, reaching up to pat his shoulder. "I guess so, then."

***

February 14th, 2020

_mom visited out of nowhere. right in the damn lobby. acted all polite and interested when bill and mateo put on a gentleman routine and invited her to sit down for the chess game. it always happens, this. she does whatever she wants because that's how it's worked for thirty-seven years. spoke to my therapist about it and he's going to help me learn how to set boundaries. it's not going to be easy. i love her, but i can't let her steer my life anymore._

_i have too much to lose._

*

He's back to visits.

Seattle isn't the cloistered cage it used to be. What had previously been familiar in all the worst ways now feels _inviting_. Damn near adventurous, like he's a kid that's tasting fresh air after a grounding session (and, well, that's pretty much what the ward was). He's keeping his visit to his mother for later. It shouldn't feel as powerful as it does, putting off when _she_ wants to see him in favor of what _he_ wants, but...it does.

He might sooner visit Darla than his mother, come to think of it. He wasn't about to leave her there to rot alone, that's for sure. Maybe he didn't know the details about her and her family, but he _did_ know her good humor and persistent fondness played a part in reviving his sanity. While asking the jeweler for suggestions he mulls over his availability; even visiting her once a month could be tough, with his busy schedule as a doctor, father _and_ boyfriend. He already missed Maggie's birthday back in November (not like he would've been able to celebrate it in his state), and he's not missing _this_ opportunity.

"Citrine is a _much_ beloved gemstone for its healing properties, both spiritually and symbolically. It's the birthstone of November, right alongside topaz..." The jeweler is saying, all of which makes him sit up straight. It's a dazzling pair of long, dangling earrings she's holding out, like little slices of the sun, the citrine oval surrounded by twinkling silver. He considers how they'd bring out the warm undertones of Maggie's skin.

"I'll take the brooch, too. The, uh, topaz one."

He considers flowers, but that might be a little much at this point. He's already sent her some, anyway. Brunch, however, was _more_ than in the cards. Just him and her, the worries of the world still just a few inches to the right and none of their concern. Just his luck. When he arrives at the sisterhouse it's not Maggie's glowing smile he sees, but Amelia, dressed down in pajama pants with her baby in one arm and a cranky quirk to her mouth.

"...Hey." Jackson runs hands over his hair, uselessly. It's not like it falls out of place- "Is Maggie-"

"Today's not a good time." She interjects, easily. Then, before he can muster up some sort of elegant farewell to stay in whatever good graces he has left, she adds: "She's sick."

"Oh." His heart sinks. Huh. It was only a matter of time, with how brutally she worked herself these past few months... "How sick?"

"Just a cold. Bad one, though. She kept pulling all-nighters, even though I told her that trying to push through your body's natural needs was diminishing returns at best-" She starts, then seems to remember she's still angry at him. "Anyway."

"...Do you need anything from the store?" He offers, tentatively. "I'm just out making the most of my day, it'd be nothing at all to swing by."

Amelia stares at him, long and silent. Her daughter starts to fuss, squirming in her blanket and poking out a little pale fist. Jackson feels the fond tickle in his heart that grew stronger ever since he had children. She's _adorable_. The tiny wisp on her head is a bright blonde, no doubt from Link. He'd love to hold her, but he wasn't about to push his luck. Just when he's wondering if half his day is going to be standing on these steps, Amelia lets out a long sigh and bounces her child.

"...We're out of orance and apple juice. Kids drink that stuff like it's crack. We also could use some broth and maybe some crackers."

Jackson pulls out his phone and punches in notes.

"Anything else?"

"A big tub of chocolate-vanilla ice cream. The cravings haven't exactly stopped since she popped out." She nuzzles down at Cadence when she squeaks. "That's _right_. Chocolate breastmilk, all for you."

Jackson cocks an eyebrow. Questionable biology of chocolate breastmilk aside, he'll do even better than _that_.

He looks up recipes in the Lyft, again when he's browsing aisles and squeezing around distracted middle-aged women with their nose in coupon lists. He fills up his handcart with all the items on Amelia's list, then grabs a few packs of udon noodles. Bags up mushrooms, green onions and leeks. Considers the benefits of a quick egg instead of chicken, then decides to go for broke and buys some thighs. His heart skips ridiculously as he tosses on some Kleenex and cough drops, then tallies up his bundle. It's been a while since he's been able to provide like this. God, it might've been... _much_ longer.

It was not long after he and Maggie decided to stop beating around the bush with each other; he'd been at the sisterhouse with Meredith and Amelia, debating whether to make pasta or quesadillas. He smiles to himself as he picks out the largest bin of chocolate-vanilla ice cream the store has. It's a good memory. A firm one.

Odd words flit through his mind as he gets his food scanned (and keeps his head down when an older man stares at him overlong by the coffee stand). Jackson...not an Avery. Jackson...stay-at-home father. Jackson...doing something other than stitching up noses and carving up jawbones. He feels the urge to reject it -- as automatic as spitting out an odd bite of food -- and he holds back. It's another epiphany. Like epiphanies tend to be, they come out of nowhere and don't always make immediate sense. He leaves the store with his stomach flip-flopping between domestic flutter and uneasy acceptance.

It's not the first time he's thought of something... _else_ to sculpt his life out of.

The door's unlocked when he returns, the sisterhouse still quiet with the kids at school. Wordlessly he stomps off snow on the mat and hangs up his coat, moving his groceries to the kitchen and setting everything up. Amelia drifts over from the living room once he's got the pot bubbling and the cutting board covered in diced vegetables, arms (momentarily) free of her newborn.

"Make enough for me?" She puts her hands on her hips and peers into one of the bags. "Smells good."

"Enough for the whole household, if you want." Jackson pulls out a few seasoning bottles. "Plenty here to keep you stocked for the week."

"I'm kidding. I already ate."

Amelia remains a woman of whiplash statements and a permanent sense of mischief. Jackson cocks an eyebrow as she plucks one of the mushrooms off the cutting board, pops it into her mouth and makes her way back upstairs. While chopping and peeling he considers how much has changed these long, _long_ years in the sisterhouse. The new little voices that weren't there before. The lack of one voice, cool and confident and now a missing solo in Meredith's song. Jackson's mouth pulls tight of its own volition as he drizzles oil on the pan. He really misses that man, sometimes.

" _That smells super good._ "

Already? Jackson's heart jumps into his throat, so fast he drops the chicken too fast and splatters hot oil on his hand. He hisses and jumps back, shaking out his fingers.

"...Oh."

Maggie rumpled up with the common cold is the most endearing thing he's seen all week, though she'd immediately rebuke the truth if he shared it. Her curls are _very_ much askew, barely held back by their silk wrap and poking out coils with impunity. Her nose is swollen red and her eyes seem unable to blink fully. Jackson smiles, helplessly, and drinks her in, flushed cheeks and all.

"Heard you were sick. Thought I'd help." He turns back to his work, more out of politeness for her condition, than anything. "Got all the vitamins and minerals here to speed up the healing process. Not too heavy, either, for the nausea..."

"'s not a lot of nausea. Just-" Maggie starts, then sneezes into a fistful of her blanket, hard. "...congestion." She blinks at him, mortified, then whirls around and shuffles off. " _Berightback_."

Jackson chuckles to himself and flips one of the thighs. If he was scared off by a little snot, their relationship really _would've_ been made out of the flimsy stuff his broken brain kept screaming about. Maggie makes her way back down a few minutes later (with a new blanket), her hair piled up somewhat more neatly and her nose the reddest he's ever seen it. She slumps at the kitchen table with a fistful of toilet paper. _Ah_. Jackson promptly reaches into one of the paper bags and hands her the tissue box, then digs around for a thermometer to check the thighs properly.

"You're a hero." She mumbles, and dabs at her nose. "Oh, these are _so_ much better. Toilet paper feels like sandpaper after a while."

"Good exfoliation, at least. Your nose will look like a baby's bottom after you're done peeling."

"If I even _have_ a nose after this." She sneezes, twice, then blows messily. "Blurgh."

Poor thing. Jackson grates a little more ginger into the bowl for her sinus, then opens up the cupboards to hunt for dishes. There are more bowls than the house probably knows what to do with. He finds one appropriately large for the 'God-I-Miss-You-And-Can-Hardly-Take-It-Anymore-Also-Get-Better-Soon' ramen bowl. The noodles take no time to cook, the vegetables soaking in the broth _just_ long enough to go from crunchy to firm. He shreds the chicken as artfully as he can with her looking ready to fall asleep sitting up, going for the fork-and-spoon combo instead of the chopsticks.

"Bon appetit."

Jackson sits across from her, digging in and relishing in just how _good_ it feels to be properly hungry. Maggie practically sways in her seat with the effort, sipping the broth and swallowing with slow, concetrated efforts. He tries not to watch her eat, but it's kind of impossible. He really didn't think she could get any more beautiful.

" _I can breathe through my nose_." She sighs after a particularly big sip. "Oh, Jackson, this is...thank you." She picks up her fork and puffs on a cluster of noodles, then starts to slurp them up. "Mmm. Did Amelia tell you I was sick?"

"Yeah, when I got here. I was just going to drop by and see if you wanted to do anything for Valentine's Day."

Maggie doesn't say anything for a minute. She chews in a daze, swallowing carefully around her swollen throat and focusing her attention on a slice of carrot. Then she pauses mid-crunch.

"Wait...today's Valentine's Day?" She groans. "Oh, _darn_ it-"

Jackson holds up a quick hand.

"You're fine. It's not like I gave you much reason to look forward to it."

Maggie frowns a little, at that, but he didn't come here to nail himself on a cross. Jackson promptly takes out the little black boxes and sets them by her bowl.

"Got you these."

"You don't have to...do all this..." She tries, lamely, blinking down at them. "I-I mean, _thank you_ , seriously, I just-"

"Of course I do." He says, simply, and puffs on a bundle of noodles. "How's Jade doing?"

Maggie squints at him, as if to say, ' _I'm not that easily distracted._ ', but, true to her nature, she is. She eats a big bite of chicken, then squirms happily.

" _Mmm._ She's doing great. Great- _ish_ , anyway. She's reporting some shortness of breath while exercising. We're going to have to run some tests this weekend, even if it ends up being nothing. Could even be..." Another big bite. "...upcoming springtime allergies. It's kind of tough when there's no precedent for rechargeable hearts. Can't just ask someone about it."

"'Cept me." Jackson mutters into his bowl, grinning. Maggie grins back.

"'Cept you."

Amelia jogs back down. She snatches a few more mushrooms, then attempts (and fails) to sneak back out of the kitchen.

"...How about Sabi?" He asks, shaking his head. Maggie puts her chin in her hand, expression caught between quiet relief and a sort of building joy he hopes to see more of.

"We've been talking a lot. Like, a _lot_. Think we've texted or called each other every day since we chatted at Pac North. She's tired of being cooped up at the hospital, but she'll be leaving soon. Her recovery is pretty impressive considering the damage. Not out of the woods, she's going to need a heart replacement, for sure, but...good, despite the odds."

"You're just out here saving everyone's hearts." Jackson reaches out and squeezes her wrist (with a mental reminder to wash his hands after). Maggie smiles sweetly and tilts her head.

"Like yours?"

Jackson sighs, pulls away and promptly returns his attention to his bowl. _Still_ corny.

They continue to eat, this time in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. If anything, it's tense in a sweet way, like the burn from a stiff muscle being stretched out. Maggie is happily surprised by another big chunk of chicken, which he can't help but grin at, and it's not long before he's getting lost in the rest of his meal and the easy quiet of the afternoon sisterhouse. He remembers what else he needs to catch up on as he's draining the last bits of broth from his bowl.

"Oh. I'm being discharged early."

There's no wait time for _this_ response. Maggie blinks at him, a tumble of noodles halfway in her mouth. Jackson leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and watching the realization spread across her face in fits and starts.

"... _Seriously?_ " Even as sick as she is, she quivers visibly with excitement, loose-leaf curls quivering with her. She bites at the noodles so the rest fall back into her broth, wipes at her mouth and swallows hard. "Are you _really?_ "

"Yeah." A smile finds its way onto his face, just a touch shaky. "...Yeah."

Maggie hastily mops at her mouth, then her nose. She bundles up her blanket around her, pushes off her chair and walks around the table as fast as she can in her sluggish state to give him a _tight_ hug.

" _Finally._ " She mumbles into his chest, and that about sums up his feelings on the matter.

"End of February." Jackson grips her back and nuzzles his nose against her temple ( _far_ too hot). "Instead of the end of March."

"We'll throw a celebration." She says, instantly. Before he can protest that, she adds: "Also, don't kiss my face. I think my nose is running again."

Jackson huffs, and kisses her messy hair.

"Okay." He spares another kiss for her temple (she really should lay down soon-), then urges her to sit, which she stubbornly refuses. "First things first, though, you need to get some rest and think about celebrations later-"

Maggie leans back and takes his face in both (blanket covered) hands.

" _Come to dinner this weekend_."

Jackson stiffens. His automatic answer is, " _Of course. I'd skydive naked if you asked me._ ". Anything Maggie wanted, he'd do. His instinctual, and _far_ more selfish, answer is, " _Yeah, I'd just be a wart on the face of your beautiful sisterhouse, let's put that off until I go from 'hated' to 'tolerated'._ " Her joy is unbridled again, though, her heart permanently on her sleeve and sparkling through the sickly fugue.

"...Okay." He says, weakly, and she's too happy to hear the doubts in his head.

"Meredith is coming back. Sabi's going to be there, too." Maggie's eyes glitter. " _Everyone's coming back_."

Jackson stares helplessly into the joy and hope in those beautiful brown eyes. It's a crooked resolution that stiffens his spine. The fierce, iron desire to _never leave her again as long as he's still breathing_ clashing with the weight of all those eyes on him, all the failures and righteous judgments and messy media coverage. No. No, that's not all of it. He _knows_ that. He also has Alex's tiny olive branch and Amelia's willingness to use him as an Uber Eats service.

He'll do his best with what he has. He _has_ to. Maggie is practically bouncing in place with what's left of her common cold energy.

"Kids are gonna be home, too. If you have Harriet, bring her on over. They'll all have a _load_ of fun on a not-quite holiday, give them something to enjoy in the spring slump." She pauses. "...You ever notice how most holidays are during the cold months or summer? Spring is kind of its own reward. I mean, there's Easter, St. Patrick's Day, but they're not nearly as big as Fourth of July or Christmas."

Jackson manages to get a word through the classic Maggie ramble.

"I'll have Harriet that night."

Maggie beams. She leans up and butts her too-hot forehead against his.

"Literal baby steps."

Then she swiftly turns around, sneezes three times in succession, and he promptly takes her by the elbow to tug her upstairs. He makes her a cup of ginger-lemon tea with the rest of the raw ginger he bought, sits with her until she falls asleep (within minutes), then takes his time doing the dishes in the kitchen. Amelia comes back down to sneak some more of the chicken, asking him if he could watch Cadence real quick while she goes to pick up the kids.

One step at a time.

***

Life is a blur, as it ever is.

The days at the ward have been a mess of clay and sessions over coffee, then it's suddenly time for the big reunion dinner and he has no idea what to wear. It's a cream sweater over dropcrotch pants and boots, because anything too fancy would seem like he's trying too hard. Then the fear that he might look like he's not trying hard _enough_ has him digging around for the right coat to throw over the ensemble, and he's fifteen minutes leaving the ward, on top of traffic and the uneasy nature of still-winter roads.

Webber calls him while he's sitting in his car a block away, panting through a panic attack and grinding his knuckles into the leather to tether his mind to the now.

" _Been a while. Just wanted to check in._ "

"You can go ahead and tell Mom I'll speak to her on my terms."

" _I'm not calling for Catherine. I'm checking in on you._ "

Jackson starts to grind his teeth, then stops. Reaches up to scratch. Stops. God, this better not be a sign of what's to come...

" _Jackson. Are you still there?_ "

"Yeah."

" _I'm sorry._ "

Classic Webber. Far too good at taking everyone's burden onto his shoulders, whether or not the shoe even fit. Jackson sighs with what feels like his entire soul. The weariness that comes with managing other people's emotions feels heavier than it used to, and he wonders how much the ward had to do with that.

"Please, don't apologize-"

" _Do you even know what I'm apologizing for? Let me speak my piece, Jackson. I should've sat you down a while ago and I didn't. I regret it. I really do._ "

Jackson snaps his mouth shut.

" _You knew you were spiraling. Maggie told me as much. You should've sought out more help than a weekend vacay or whatever people call it these days. You're not good at asking for help, Jackson. Just like your mother_." To his credit, he doesn't elaborate too much on that last part. " _That said, we're...we're family. This hospital is one big family and I didn't reach out to you when I should've. Hell, Jackson. I watched the shooter blow his brains out. He even tried to get me to share one last drink with him, salt in my former alcoholic wound. I had nightmares, too. Waking and sleeping. Watching all my nurses and surgeons unwind over the following months, you included...I felt so useless_."

In spite of himself, he feels his heartrate slowing down and feeling returning to his fingers. The man's voice always was soothing, though he'd never admit it to his face. He thinks about Lexie's breakdown on the emergency room floor. Alex's distasteful diatribe about elevators as they hunched over beers at Joe's Bar, not-watching the sports game.

" _I don't get all of it, but I definitely get some of it. Hell, your mother is still raking me over the coals for smashing up that bar. I've seen what you've gone through. I know how stout your spine is. How big your heart. I was angry at you for how you treated Maggie, hell, for how you kept blowing me off and treating me like a nuisance. I still could've put my foot down and forced you to take a break. Maybe shifted some of the milder cases onto the interns to sharpen them up. Maybe if I had talked with you, really sat down and talked with you, all this could've been avoided_."

What a cruel joke. His mother never gave him space and Richard gave him too much. Jackson shakes his head, trying not to let the crest of his bad decisions rise too high and overwhelm the night ahead. His heart feels like a drum, pounding to a terrible song.

"Yeah, and maybe if I had gone to therapy like I _should've_ all this could've been avoided. It's not your fault. Taking the blame, believe it or not, is just going to give me more things to slap myself over."

" _Maggie said the same thing. You're both determined not to let me feel guilt_."

"Then don't. I'm telling you, the father routine is kind of old hat. You're more of a...mentor-uncle." Jackson chuckles, working through the irritation and fondness more carefully than he did. "But...I appreciate it. You've always looked out for me, for _all_ of us, and I really haven't...been the best about that."

" _All right, then. I'll take that_." Webber waits, just long enough he knows it's something he won't want to hear. " _...Your mother is worried about you_."

Jackson sighs through his nose. Of course. He knows. He also knows she doesn't change one _whit_ , because nothing is ever truly, wholly her fault.

" _I can hear you rolling your eyes right now. She loves you, Jackson. I know she can show it harshly, too much at times, even, but she loves you. Just...I know how easy distance can make bitter feelings_."

"Love isn't enough. You have to show it correctly." Jackson opens the car door and braces against the rush of cold air that slaps his skin. "The past five months have taught me that better than anything. I'll talk to you later, okay? If I'm any later for this reunion I might as well not go."

Webber gets him to agree to a sit-down once he returns to Grey-Sloan (which he knows he'll need after his transition out of the ward). It's a better note to leave on than he was expecting.

The moment he opens the sisterhouse's front door his ears are hit with an _explosion_ of noise. Meredith isn't here yet, because he'd be able to tell by the change in the air alone: Alex and Jo are, however, lounging in the kitchen with their arms around each other's waists. He can hear the kids squalling in the living room as he hangs up his coat (followed by play-growls from Link, who is likely the evening child-herder). Amelia jogs up to him, pushing her messy bangs out of her eyes in what is likely the aftermath of a new mother with too many obligations to juggle.

"Looks like you're the new chef of the sisterhouse, Jackson. I'm shit at steak."

"Just point me to what needs to be done."

Harriet is already bouncing and squeaking when she arrives. April doesn't linger on. She comments on the state of the sisterhouse, taking note of the new baby decorations, then excuses herself. It's more work than he's used to giving her gentle instructions to keep her busy, all while multitasking with the prep work and holding conversations. His life wasn't just around the corner anymore. It's right _here_ , thumping and breathing easily, not a shard to be found. He's thrown the glass from the mountaintop, and he's standing at its peak, his world open and waiting for him to spread his wings and fly.

Maggie seems to have a sixth sense for the air, too, because she slides in alongside him as he's rubbing the steak and tries (and fails) to hip-bump him away.

"...Uh, what are you doing?" Jackson scoffs, not budging an inch. Maggie frowns, tries another hip-bump, then leans back."

"Trying to get you to go sit down while I finish up the spread. Is it working?"

"No." He reaches for the pepper. "If you want to help, though, you can do the salad."

"The _salad?_ I'm a _very_ good cook, Jackson."

"So am I."

Maggie leans into his space, leans against the counter, and squints up at him. Jackson turns away from his work long enough to look at her and... _wow_. She's wearing the jewelry he bought her. She's paired it with an olive green sweater and gray leggings, contrasting the yellow-orange in a way that reminds him of flowerbeds and margaritas.

"You just look tired, is all." She stresses, a smile curling the corner of her mouth at his sudden speechlessness. "We're going to be really catching up, I want you to save up that energy for the table."

"I'm..." Jackson starts...then shrugs, adding another sprinkling to the steak. He lays them out in the tray, double-checking for missed spots. Maggie was too good at being right. "I try to pack in the most I can in my off-site days. It's nothing new."

"The potatoes, the rolls _and_ the steak. Mm-mm. Go lay down a little. The prep work is done, then it's just waiting for the meat to finish up. I'll check it"

"It's nothing, Maggie." He stresses, washing off his hands. "I don't want to miss a moment."

Not to be outdone, she reaches up and takes his face in both hands, turning him to face her. There's no way she doesn't know what that does to him, at this point.

"'Maggie, get some rest. Maggie, you need to take care of yourself. Maggie, you're not a robot, despite your best attempts to create them!'" She says, attempting to mimic his affect and with frustrating accuracy. "Is this... _hypocrisy_ I smell?"

"I think that's the steak." He drawls, rolling his eyes when she turns him around by his shoulders and pushes him toward the living room.

" _Nap_. I'll wake you."

It was always a losing battle. The sisterhouse living room is one of the most peaceful places he's ever been in. Right up there with camping in the woods in terms of sheer peace generated. Jackson lays on the couch, out of principle more than anything, and his body, as it's _been_ doing for the past several months, betrays him. He dozes off watching the fire crackle, dreaming of marshmallow snow and champagne stars. He wakes up an hour later, limbs feeling like they're about to melt off his body. ...Still on the couch. Crap. _Crap_.

"Oh...no." He mumbles, trying to shake off the fuzzy cloud of good sleep. It's hard, when it feels like the best rest he's had in years. "Damn it-"

His legs catch on something. Someone tossed a blanket over him. It's a little lavender quilt, barely large enough for an adult. Maggie trots out of the kitchen just as he's sitting up.

"Hey. Dinner's almost done." She sits on the edge of the sofa. There's a thin line of sweat on her brow, like it wasn't just cooking taking up her energy. "Meredith is actually grabbing a few things I forgot at the store. Talk about setting an impression for her big fancy welcome home dinner, huh?"

Jackson's heart sinks. He kicks off the blanket.

"You could've asked me. I was going to help." He tries to peer around her. "Is everyone else here already?"

"You were tired. I _told_ you to lay down." Maggie puts a hand on his shoulder and tries to nudge him back down. "Sabi is still on her way." Another hard nudge. "Go on. Lay down."

Jackson slumps back and sighs up at the ceiling, heart twisting mournfully.

"...Didn't _used_ to be this tired."

Maggie dips down and kisses him. It's so good and sweet he temporarily forgets to be grouchy about his body's new limits. Jackson stares at her in a soupy haze as she pets his cheek.

"It's okay." She kisses his nose, then his forehead, then his beard, or maybe he's dreaming it all up. " _You're okay_."

He dozes off again, and feels a little less guilty about it. That is, until he wakes and notices something a little off about his face. There's something on it, his cheeks and beard. For a cold second he wonders if he scratched at his face in his sleep. It wouldn't be the first time it happened. Then he holds his fingers up in the light and sees they're...purple. A glance toward the potted plant (with two giggling shapes attempting to watch him through the leaves) finishes the mystery. It's been a while since he was able to do _this_ , too.

Jackson clutches his face and staggers against the couch.

"Oh, no...nobody told them that make-up is the one thing that unleashes..." He whirls around to where they're crouched behind the plant. " _-the beast!_ "

Zola is a little too old for the schtick. She just busts out laughing. Harriet, on the other hand, _shrieks_ with delight, booking up the stairs. Jackson promptly gives pursuit, _just_ slow enough to let his daughter keep an imaginary lead. The girl was _much_ better at hiding when she's not actively laughing, and he finds her trying to crawl into what seems to be the community hamper. He can see Maggie in the corner of his eye as he marches downstairs with his daughter in tow. The woman busts a gut when he plops Harriet onto the couch and pretends to devour her, blowing raspberries on her stomach.

He sets her free with the threat that he's still hungry, and she squeals off into the kitchen.

"Didn't think I could still be scary with sparkly purple eyeshadow and blush." Jackson sighs, rubbing at his eyelids and studying the sparkles on his nails. "Learn something new every day."

" _You got eyeshadow on my belly!_ " Harriet calls from the kitchen. He calls back.

" _You got eyeshadow on my beard!_ "

Her mischievous giggle suggests, in no uncertain terms, she'd do it again. Jackson goes to wash off the make-up with the alcohol wipes, quietly thrilling at the chance to try out the new facewash Maggie bought (an incredible peach and brown sugar concoction). Once he gets his own apartment again, he's going to level up his bathroom supplies. It feels _good_ to enjoy his appearance again. His scars are hardly visible now, not without a determined look, and, well...maybe they're just as much apart of him now as the journaling and the crying out of nowhere...

A hard _thud_ and _clatter_ outside the bathroom door jolts him back to his new (old) reality. Zola's taken a hard fall on another apparent run through the house.

" _Ow!_ "

Jackson sighs. God, he forgot how busy everyday life was.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Ow, ow." She gripes, sitting up and clutching her knee, glinting a bright red in the hallway light. Her eyes glimmer, but tears don't fall. "Ow."

Paging Dr. Avery. Jackson promptly pulls her into the bathroom, sits her down and gets to work. He washes off the cut and checks it for anything foreign, then promptly gets to disenfecting. It's just a small cut, but the feel of working together skin and blood refreshes him.

"I have a friend named Jade at the hospital. With the rechargeable heart." Zola chatters. "She's broken her bones _five times_."

"Well, don't try and follow in her footsteps, okay?" Jackson says, holding up the box of bandages. "My Little Pony or Moana?"

"Moana."

He's setting it across her knee to keep it from crinkling off when there's a knock on the door. One thing after another. Jackson ushers Zola out with a reminder to be more careful, then jogs downstairs. Maggie and Link are herding the kids in the kitchen, assigning tasks to set up the table and pick up any toys or bags on the floor. Alex is getting up to answer, which he holds a hand up for. It might be Sabi, and meeting her on the front steps would be the perfect way to yank off _this_ bandage.

"I got it, I got it."

It's not Sabi. It's Meredith, in a long white coat and her arms full of groceries.

"...Hey."

She doesn't greet him back, expression as inviting as a bear trap covered in rust. Jackson tries to keep his face level, the chill from the night already not lending itself to much movement. He's known this woman for so long. When she doesn't so much as bother with a fake smile -- better than even _he_ was at the art -- he knows to sit up and pay attention. Zola skips out with nary a limp, her literal slip-up earlier completely forgotten.

"Mom, need help?"

_Now_ Meredith smiles. She sets the bags down gingerly.

"How about you take these extra groceries to your aunts? I'm going to talk with Jackson for a minute."

Zola picks up one and obediently trots off to the kitchen. The two of them stand in silence and wait for the girl to run back out, grab the second, and run back inside. Only once she shuts the door behind her does Jackson turn to face her. She looks good, though he supposes she _would_ , being a white medical celebrity in her home city. A little tired, with the crow's feet around her eyes and the look of a mother who has spent far too long away from her family. Catherine got that look sometimes, though of a variety he would sooner call 'crazy' than 'longing'.

He takes in a deep breath.

"It's good to-"

_Crack._

His face goes from very cold to very, _very_ warm. It takes Jackson a full three seconds to realize she slapped him.

"I've been thinking about doing that ever since the court hearing." She leans in close and stares him down with an argument _much_ longer than her next words: " _Never again_."

Jackson slowly straightens up.

"Never again." He repeats, leaning back on his heels and wincing through the sting. "Applies to you, too, right?"

Meredith watches him with an icy blue stare that's as much a part of his memories of Grey-Sloan as any of his achievements _or_ failures. There's a flicker of shame, beneath the anger.

"...Yes."

"Good. Glad we're on the same page."

They stare each other down in the evening cold. Then she moves toward him. It takes him another three seconds to realize she's hugging him, tightly.

"Welcome back, Jackson."

He crushes his eyes shut and hugs her tight.

"...Welcome back, Meredith."

The dinner spread is turning out to be a _lavish_ creation. The house is building up in turn, filled up with the happy squeals of children and low hubbub of adults catching up. In-between wiping off the counter and pulling out napkins his brain kicks up as many excuses as possible for him to unexpectedly leave, like a sequel to 'Pretty Penny And The Medical Malpractice Case'. Maggie, though, keeps her arm firmly around his waist as he does some early clean-up to ease the dishwashing burden. It's just one night. It's just one night.

Then she leaves to go talk with Sabi, and he's alone, more or less, feeling as off-balance as if he forgot to put on socks. Jackson rolls his jaw idly as he fills up the sink for a soak, his mind subconsciously taking stock of this new (old) world around him. Harriet, Ellis and Bailey keep bumping into his legs as they try to watch, then get distracted, then come back to watch. Alex is as cordial as he can be while still being Alex, slipping past him for an early beer and muttering that he should sit _just down at the table already_. Zola hardly leaves her mother's side.

"So what happened to your knee, sweetheart?"

"Tripped while chasing Bailey and Harriet. Jackson fixed it."

"Did he, now? He did a good job."

Jackson is drying off his hands with a dishrag when he catches sight of someone new in the foyer, the immediate impulse to smile pleasantly clashing with all the new good habits he picked up on 'being honest' and 'decompressing'. She looks about his age (though apparently he didn't look his age), her short curls dusted with snow and scarf disheveled. Her jacket is a bright, happy orange, like something Maggie would wear. In fact, she... _really_ looks like her. The woman in question embraces her firmly, yet carefully, as if going in too hard would invite a consequence. Was she pregnant? Sick? Then it clicks. _Sabi_.

"Wow, look at _you_." Sabi is gasping, reaching up to poke at Maggie's ears. "Where'd you get those?"

"Jackson. For Valentine's Day."

She does a visible double-take. Then lowers her voice, not so low he can't catch.

"I'm going to have to be nice to him, aren't I?"

Jackson hastily shuffles over to the table and finally takes a seat. The table is steaming pleasantly, steak and salad and dinner rolls strewn in artful chaos. Harriet is squeaking eagerly for the mashed sweet potatoes, Bailey much more concerned with filling his cup with juice. Alex and Jo sit side-by-side. Maggie sits between Amelia and Sabi (with a quick apologetic look for him, even though he doesn't mind in the least-). He just smiles and sits between Harriet and Link. Meredith sits at the head of the table, as fitting a guest of honor.

"Speech time!" Maggie says with a clap. "Everyone get your glasses. You too, kids."

The table shuffles and readies themselves. His own heart skips a beat, reconciling with just how damn long it's been since... _everything_. Meredith stands up and takes in a deep breath.

"...Prison food _sucks_." She says, and raises her glass in a toast. The table dissolves into laughter. "Dig in, already!"

Everyone does. Jackson feels the clutter of conversation and silverware wash over him, a homely cacophony that manages to lean closer to pleasant than overwhelming. The steak is a mouthwatering medium-rare, almost dripping when he bites into it. Link compliments him on the rub, which he takes in stride, and Jo refills his glass before he realizes it's empty. It's all so...easy. Easier than he thought it'd be. It's hard to keep his gaze away from Maggie and Sabi as they chatter. He'd only glimpsed her cousin once, but the resemblance really _is_ uncanny...

"Oh, man. This steak is so fu-" Alex moans around his mouthful, then switches so smoothly Jackson almost second-guesses his perception. "-ntastic. A-plus."

"Funtastic...?" Zola murmurs, squinting. The adults around her politely pretend they didn't hear anything.

"Jackson put it together." Maggie chirps. "Man wields spices like he's trying to multi-class."

"You've been going through my D&D handbook again, haven't you." Amelia drawls over her sweet potatoes. Maggie bounces in her seat.

"Oh, _oh!_ One, yes, I have. Two, one of these days we're all going to have to play. I never had a team when I was in school."

"I'll be on your team. I'll be an...ogre or something." Sabi offers. Her plate is smaller, but he imagines her appetite needed to heal as much as her heart. "It has ogres, right?" Amelia winces and looks up to the ceiling. Then she looks at him- "Right?"

It's the first she's spoken directly to him since she arrived. Jackson blinks and sits up straight.

"...You might be thinking of orcs." He pokes at his food and tries on a smile. "Seen patie-...people play a few times."

"But you _totally_ haven't, right?" She teases, smirking in a way that's so similar to Maggie in one of her playful moods he has to blink twice.

"Scout's honor."

Sabi starts to say something else, then tilts her head and gestures at her face.

"Hey, you've got a little something-" She says, trailing off and poking at her jawline.

Jackson's hands shake. ...Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. He forgot to put his foundation back on after he washed his face off. His daughter decides then and there to hop in, sensitive as she always is.

"Daddy, you got a cut." She says, reaching up to poke at his beard. Jackson smiles and gently takes her hand. "You got one here and here-"

"Just a scratch. It's nothing."

"You need to eat." She insists through a bite of her dinner roll, pointing at his plate. "Or no pie."

"Chew, sweetheart. Don't want you to choke." He murmurs, scratching at his jaw and looking away from Sabi's curious gaze.

Harriet responds by stabbing a cherry tomato and pushing it toward his mouth. Jackson's heart withers. He leans down and eats it without complaint, and doesn't miss the little smile he gets from Maggie. It's not as heartwarming as she thinks. It's a bad sign when his daughter has to remind him to _eat..._

"So, Jackson." Sabi says, again, and his chest clenches. "I'm going to be a little awkward here and just ask some questions about you, since I've been attached to a machine for forever and a half and barely know anybody here. What've you been up to?"

Recovering at a psych ward after breaking public property and screaming at patients. Being mobbed by paparazzi and avoiding his mother, who might've been abusive all along. Falling in love with the love of his life all over again, after treating her like garbage, and trying to be a good father. Struggling through a dinner that's not _nearly_ as hard as saving a little girl from a burning bus or returning a boy's shoulders back to him. Making no sense, second verse same as the first, and the weather's _great_. He feels eyes on him, a skin-crawling awareness, and he's not sure _whose_ because he doesn't want to look and find out. Jackson stares at the new woman before him, with the new-old life around him, and he can't.

"...Um, I'll be right back."

Sabi's face falls. He'll tell her later it's not her fault. The conversation barely lulls when he excuses himself, Amelia going on some tangent that has Link blushing _fiercely_ , and that's exactly what he needs. Jackson keeps the bathroom door at a crack, just in case, then tugs down the toilet lid seat and slumps down.

...Just a few minutes. Just a few minutes. Jackson hunches against his knees and rolls his knuckles into his temples, trying to massage out the tension that's been growing like a bruise for hours. Oh, _damn_ it all. This isn't _fair_. Why the hell can't his stupid brain give him a break, on a day as monumental as _this_ one? His heart is thumping too erratically for him to breathe right, his itching jaw doubling in force and his thoughts whipping around to the worst-cases that refuse to be outpaced.

"Breathe." He mutters to himself, clenching his hands open and closed. "Breathe..."

Talking was so much harder than he remembered it being, and the ward had reminded him of his hubris without mercy. He _thought_ he got the hang of it again, but now he's in the thick of it and it's all so _much_. How is that something Harriet can look up to? How is that something Alex or Meredith or Sabi can respect? Jackson tugs at his shirt, breath switching into a pant he can't edge down. He cracks open the side window to let in a breeze. He shoots up a pathetic little prayer, begging on all but his knees to ebb the panic and let him have this night, just _this_ night, without the crazy.

God's not done raking him over the coals. The horrible heat rises when he thinks about explaining to his daughter why he has scratches on his face, because she was as stubborn as her mother and never failed to ask questions. The pain in his jaw spikes, _aches_ , when he remembers he's missing from the table. No. He can't do this. It's plain and simple. If he can't talk over a nice dinner with the family, he can't _work_ or _raise children_. Once he's let go at the end of February it's just going to be another litany of shattered tries, all set to his wretched name. A new failure, this time at another gala with his mother by his side, or perhaps on the playground while he's watching his daughter play on the swingset. 

Jackson stares at knuckles that don't seem attached to his wrists, panting through the chill that still doesn't push away the heat. He had the world in his hands, ready to build piece-by-piece. Jackson Avery, Dr. Avery, Jackson the failure, Jackson the symbol, Jackson the screw-up, Jackson, Jackson, Jackson-

_-Jackson? Can I come in?_

Hot coffee and slow sunsets, peering through the sliver. She sounds so far away. Why does it always get so _hot_ when this happens? He just wanted quiet. Stillness-

_Oh, Jackson. Hey..._

The sliver widens into a gap that threatens to pour in the new-old world, and his conviction stretches to snapping, protesting, begging. No, _no_. His daughter can't see this. She's getting her normal again, he's not going to whip that out from under her, cast her from the mountaintop-

_Harriet's downstairs. Everyone's just talking._

Thank God. But how long as he been up here? When can he go back? Should he go back? He doesn't want anyone else to see this, either, not the new family members who already know him to be a fuck-up and a pall, not the old ones learning to suffer him again. A raincloud settles before him, glittering with orange lightning as she kneels on the fuzzy shower mat, away from the sliver that yawns wider and wider and wider-

_Maggie, is he okay-_

_He's fine, just needs a little space-_

_Anything I can do-_

He sees a blonde head (used to be shut away like he was), then another Maggie at the door, and that doesn't make _any sense_ , and panic lurches up his throat with a bile-like ferocity. No, not again. Please, _God_ , not again. A palm on the wall doesn't lift him, the floor doesn't greet him. He's in a limbo's limbo, the ward too distant for to collect his shatter. It's all at his fingertips, he can hear it, smell dinner and perfume and safety through the sliver, but life is more slippery than ever-

_Was it something I said-_

_I can call someone-_

_I think I have this, if you two could just stand in the hallway? It's just overwhelming, I think-_

Whispers in the sliver. The voices fade, and he's sorry for rejecting them. He's _sorry_. It didn't have to be like this. That's true from the outside, it's true from the inside, it's all _true_ and awful and miserable. Then the raincloud rises, up and away, and somewhere within his heart tumbles over the edge of a cliff face, a prayer sounding off like a bell, without words and louder than a clap. She can't go yet. She can't melt into the whispers he can't grab, not yet, not when they're _this close_.

_Hey. Listen to my voice. You're okay. I'm here. Drink some water. Just a little, there you go._

Cool. Wet. She's a raincloud, parching his throat.

_What can I do?_

Please stay.

_Okay._

Somewhere, in the infinity time, he's brought back down. The heat ebbs and he realizes just how cold the toilet seat lid is, and that the window should probably be closed. His heartrate slows down, sputtering like a dying engine, and his thoughts circle wearily not around self-loathing freefalls, but around an incomplete appetite. When he finally lifts his head from his knees Maggie is still there. Kneeling with her hands folded on her curled knees, sad and worried.

"...How are you feeling?"

Like a lump of wet clay. Jackson holds out a trembling hand. Maggie takes it without hesitation. He slides fingers through hers and presses his lips against their clasped fists, feeling the last of the awful heat slide out of him down his scarred cheeks.

***

By the time he makes it back down dinner is wrapping up.

He takes the slice of pecan pie offered, piling on a little extra whipped cream. Meredith tells him she saved his plate, but he tells her he's not all that hungry, and she lets him have his lie. While everyone catches up over spritzers he does the dishes in the kitchen. Amelia drifts in as he's doggedly scrubbing away at dried potato in the pot, silently helping him dry the dishes on the rack and putting them away. Eventually there's nothing else for him to do, but sidling into the thick of a family conversation by the fire is a little too much.

The kids are in various states of food comas on the sofas and floor. He sees Harriet's curly little head in a blanket bundle by Jo, Alex looking about ready to pass out himself. Sabi stops him in the foyer as he's pulling on his coat. She looks exhausted, and very much like she's trying not to let it show.

"I'm really sorry about earlier, at the dinner table. I shouldn't have said anything..."

"It's not you." Jackson shrugs his shoulders. "It's just..." It's so much to explain. He doesn't have the energy, but he doesn't want to leave her feeling sorry. "...recovery."

She tilts her head from side-to-side, studying him. Judging him, in that frank way that seemed to run in the Webber-Pierce family trees.

"When we both recover..." She holds out her hand. "...let's play D&D or something."

He's destined to become a nerd. Jackson takes her hand and shakes it.

"It's a deal."

He's not the only one in need of a breather. Maggie is sitting outside on the porch swing, bundled up in an extra cardigan and still wearing her jewelry. She's got a cup of something hot in her hands, the scent that greets his nose spiced and sweet. She smiles when he slumps next to her. Panic attacks were exhausting. If he's not careful he'll fall asleep sitting up.

"Hey."

"...Hey."

Maggie is many things. Brilliant. Funny. Compassionate. Subtle is not usually one of them. He's confused, and a little grateful, when she doesn't bring up his meltdown in the bathroom, holding up her mug instead.

"It's a specialty blend. Jade's parents own a roastery and are promising to treat me to free samples for life." She holds out the cup for him to try. He sips it carefully, blinking at the rush of flavor that greets his tongue. "Good, huh? Um, I know this is probably not the _best_ question, after tonight..." She seems to be searching for words, gesturing vaguely at her cheek. "But that redness is _kiiinda_ starting to look like the shape of a hand."

Jackson debates the merits of honesty. She didn't like things kept from her. If she didn't find out from him, she'd certainly find out later.

"Meredith slapped me." He huffs. "Then she hugged me."

Maggie leans back, eyes stretched wide.

"Huh. Classic Mer."

Jackson cocks an eyebrow. Maggie bobs her head from side-to-side.

"Well...maybe not _classic_ -classic, but..."

He knows he shouldn't, but it's out of him before he can stop.

"I'm sorry about earlier." He twists his hands together. "I thought I...I thought I had everything under control."

Maggie doesn't say anything for a time. She starts to rock the swing, gently. It's a soothing motion. A sane one.

"...Jade has to sleep more than she likes, since her body's been through so many surgeries. She also has to remember to put on her false skin flap to protect her new heart. One time she forgot and had to come in for us to check anything for damage."

Jackson frowns, well and thoroughly confused. Maggie sighs and twists to look up at him.

"You're getting used to your _life_ again, Jackson. Of course it's going to be a little bumpy. Getting out of the ward is like...I don't know, studying for a test you still haven't taken. Actually filling in all the blanks correctly is a different matter." She looks off when the wind blows and rustles the bushes. "I'm _still_ getting used to how big my family is. Or, rather, how big it could be..."

"Are you still trying to reach out to Chris?" Jackson asks. Maggie's lack of response confirms what he already knows. Tired as he is, anger flares hot and just in his chest. "Take it from me. Grief isn't pretty at the _best_ of times, but you saved his daughter's life. If he's going to keep blowing you off, then you need to call it quits. You deserve better than someone who takes your generosity for granted."

"...Look at me. Sometimes I can't believe my luck." She kicks her feet, smiling. "...Feels like you're all stitching _my_ heart back together."

"Just like Undertale?"

"Just like Undertale."

His, too. He feels like he can breathe correctly. Breathe with a conviction. Jackson leans back and looks up at the stars, Maggie's cheek warm against his shoulder and the food and alcohol warm in his stomach. Stepping foot in Grey-Sloan with his white coat and smile will come later. A fleeting image passes through his mind, of Maggie's face covered in gauzy white and flowers clutched in her hands. Jackson hands back the mug of coffee, then sips it again when Maggie refuses it. Maybe someday. Always perhaps. The first time he tried to get married was an impulse that chased after his heels with one consequence or another. She deserved better than that.

She deserved...well, the _world_. Sculpted as close to perfection as he could get.

The wind churns around them, caught in its own limbo between wet and warm as it hints at spring. He doesn't want to think about the future right now, or even the past, but his now. His now, happening now, real and smelling of rain and coffee, free from glass from the mountaintop. From now on, he'll stand tall.

"I love you, Maggie." He mumbles sleepily, kissing her hair. "You don't have to say it ba-"

Maggie stops him with a kiss of her own, soft and warm and pushing the rest of his words back into his mouth.

"...I love you, Jackson."

*

_I want to live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Phew!_ This chapter took a little longer than usual because there was always something more to add. I'd sit on the toilet- _oh!_ Just remembered an important exchange that should probably happen between these two characters. Doing dishes- _oh!_ A little extra comment here would make sense. Lots of nice little closure knots (and lack thereof) to hash out before the end. Feels good, man.
> 
> It didn't escape my notice I'm uploading a Jaggie chapter involving a big dinner scene _right before_ the show airs its new episode involving a dinner scene with Jackson and Maggie. I swear I didn't plan this. My sixth sense for _yet more things I need to fix_ is just tingling, apparently. it's also funny that the fic's timeline almost lines up with the IRL timeline, that was...partially intentional???
> 
> We're in the final stretch. One last chapter. I won't lie, I'm going to miss waking up to all your beautiful comments once this series wraps up. They make me so goshdarn happy. Get your feels ready for some chicken soup for the soul!


	12. to the stars

**Song Inspiration** : "Look After You" by The Fray

*

_it's always have and never hold_

_you've begun to feel like home_

_what's mine is yours to leave or take_

_what's mine is yours to make your own_

* * *

_Love should arrive gentler than it does. That it arrives at all is a miracle in motion._

_If only pain were just a little kinder. So many fight for love and never receive it. Some luck out and find themselves in the middle of an affectionate axis for years and years. Is it something that happens to you or something that you do? Can losing it be a lesson or a barrier? No matter when or how it arrives, love is wind. Slipping between your fingers when you thought it captured, arriving suddenly when you found yourself lost._

_The only truth is that love is everywhere, and that, forever, is a beautiful thing._

* * *

_Set up the sleepover with his daughter at his new apartment. Check._

_Meet with the Brown family for the first spray-on skin consultation. Check._

_Step into the stars and pluck out a slice of the moon for Maggie. Check._

_Everything is perfect. Down to the last little detail._

_It's the Avery way. Written in ink, set in stone. This ancient golden rule only shined brighter after his father's colossal mistake, raised like a beacon in his mother's hands over the heads of an already respected family to cast him, and his entire world, in a proud glow. When he arrives to the boardroom perfection is the only thing on his mind, the present exchanged for a future of what-ifs and a past of almosts. His suit is dry cleaned and ironed. There's no cut on his cheek today, no claw marks snaking out of his beardline to draw a second glance. His smile is as carefully shined as his shoes, and his mother reflects him across the table like a mirror._

_"Both Pac North and Grey Sloan have really come around, against all odds, Jackson." Her scarf flows magenta over the dark coffee table, rippling as gently as a babbling brook. "I never thought it'd get this far with so much controversy hanging over its head."_

_He's one of the controversies, he knows, but this stain on the family name has already been acknowledged and dissected. It's a statement that could be applied to so many other things, too, and it's with a great effort he chooses to passively accept her rare praise. Her fingers dip in and out of the little glass bowl of nuts, a delicate sound that still stings. He should eat, too. Perform professional relaxation. His appetite is gone. Gone away again, just like it consistently was, and he can't remember what it's like to have ever been hungry. Not with the criticism etching its way back onto Catherine's face with the slow crawl of a looming sunset._

_"...I don't like how much time you've been spending away from the family, Jackson."_

_His entire body turns to ice. It's the more he's been dreading. The more he tried so hard to iron and smile away. She picks up another nut, claw-like between her long nails. Her scarf shimmers when the half-open window to her right slips in a breeze._

_"You spend a lot of time with Maggie. At the sisterhouse. Almost makes me feel like an afterthought."_

_Because Maggie's his peace. The one sliver of sanity in his blurry life. She didn't give a damn about the shade of his tie or the pitch to his voice when speaking into a mic. All she ever saw was him, all the way back when she first joined Grey-Sloan and accidentally insulted him to his face with her characteristic honesty. Jackson's heart shivers painfully, as if trying to wriggle out of his chest and sneak out past the shadows of his mother's roaming eyes._

_"Your own daughter is a superior Avery." It's when she looked away things were at their worst, because that meant the conversation was done. "At least she shows **up** to family gatherings."_

_Jackson's fists clench. He looks to the clock, but it's spinning backwards, and the hallway lights outside the pulled blinds are dim and unmoving. He's not going to let his daughter go through this! Be a husk stepping on command, trailing in the shadow of unchecked narcissism under the guise of medical glamour, loving herself only as others dictated. When, where, how! She's threatened by Maggie because she filled a gap that this damned family stretched open in the first place. Barnes helped him see that._

_Once he learned how to breathe...he no longer wanted to choke. Once he learned what a real smile felt like, he couldn't muster up a fake grin. There's no going back now, and that absolute is almost comforting._

_"What if I don't want to be part of the Avery Foundation anymore?"_

_His mother's face changes, at that. Looms through the room's growing dark with glittering, angry eyes. Her mouth doesn't move, but he hears the retorts. Feels them slicing through his peripheries like a scalpel through flesh to ribbon him into smaller, digestible pieces._

_**Just like your father.** _

_**Abandoning the family.** _

_**Letting down a medical empire, and all the patients and doctors under it.** _

_Jackson knocks the chair over, and the thud is so loud nurses or patients rush to the door, start knocking on the windows._

_**Does your daughter know you were committed?** _

_**Can you perform a surgery in your condition?** _

_**How will your mother run the foundation with her cancer?** _

_She was too loud. Everyone can **hear** her. The lights flash through the blinds, white pustules through the boardroom brown, and he realizes they're reporters, hungry for their pound of flesh. He could grab another chair and send it through the glass, but he's stopped, he's changed, he's **different**. The urge to crumple this room in his fists and tear it down overwhelms. His breath comes out short, choked, the first sign that his fears were never unfounded. He's forgetting how to live. He's forgetting how to love. No, he's just surviving now, in his pressed suit and shined shoes._

_**Get me out-** _

_-he yells at the door when it won't open, when it flashes red and green. He has to leave through the wind through the half-open window, cold and freeing._

_It's raining hard outside. His scars reveal under the running water, and there's no time to fix his face, not when the weight of his decision waits behind him in the hospital, ready to bleed the worst. When the rain hits the sidewalk it bounces and turns to glass, every crunch beneath his shoes turning his footing. There's a flash of something in the parking lot, bright enough to reveal him, and against his better instincts, and all the change he's gone through doesn't stop him from huddling. The glass rain cuts through his coat. Slices up his cheeks and knuckles. If he doesn't leave here he'll bleed out, but there's nowhere else to go._

_Then another pop of light. He hunches down, covers his neck from the cutting glass, but it's not a camera flash. It's a flicker of lightning, tiny and trembling between the cars' shadows._

_His raincloud._

_His sweetheart._

_"...I got you something." He reaches a trembling hand into his coat pocket and pulls out the moon sliver he found earlier today. His voice is a spiderweb crack. He can barely hear himself, because he's been gone far too long. "I know it's not much..."_

_Maggie's smile is the half-moon to his half-moon, cradling the thundercloud beacon between her fingers by the sisterhouse car. He's cut up, he's lost, but she has him sunk, neck deep in the everything that comes with her presence._

_"Let's go home, Jackson."_

***

" _Happy birthday!_ "

_Aaand_ a spray of confetti hits her square in the face. Zola immediately apologizes, but she just waves a hand and tries to elegantly pick paper pieces off her tongue. It's a good look for the day, honestly.

Jade's a girl defined by extraordinary achievements and a less-than-stellar track record with the mundane. She's quietly alarmed by all the hubbub and cheer from people roughly her age, watching with affected coolness with her hands in her pockets as the present line starts up. It was an unconventional idea to invite her to the sisterhouse for a birthday, but a _good_ one, Maggie thinks as both adults and children offer up their gifts. Bailey is attempting to readjust his party hat with his present under one arm, while his little sister is trying _not_ -so-subtly to inch first in line to get her present open.

"...Huh. That's, like, my fifth soccer ball today." Jade chuckles as she unwraps Ellis'. At the girl's crestfallen face she instantly tosses it up into the air and catches it. "...The _coolest_ one, honestly."

Maggie gives Jade a wink. Good save. Zola got her a new pair of sneakers, ones that actually _fit_ , shocker of shockers, and Jade immediately swaps them with her current pair. She gets a new sweatshirt next. A new pair of headphones. More candy than she'll be able to eat in the next six months with her heart-healthy diet. One-by-one the gifts pile up, until her patient is buried in wrapping paper and looking overwhelmed in a decidedly better way.

"Speech time." Meredith declares. Her party hat is on her forehead, like a unicorn, and Maggie quietly adjusts her own to keep up the image. "That's how we do things around here. Doesn't have to be long."

Jade pushes off a pile of rainbow tissue paper and stands up, looking at everyone with a small smile.

"Um. Thanks for all the presents. This is...really cool. I've never had a birthday with so many friends. I've, um...also never had a heart that, like...got to _stay_ in me." She rubs at her eyes, then quickly stuffs her hands into her pockets. "Uh...anyone want cake?"

The kids cheer. Jason practically _brays_ at that. Meredith and Amelia immediately head over to the kitchen to grab supplies.

"All right!" He declares. He's been practically vibrating with eagerness this entire time. " _Coffee_ cake, of course. From the roastery. This is our Ethiopian light roast."

"With extra frosting." Brett adds with a smile.

Maggie does her part to clear out the living room for the impromptu dance off, then steps back to take photos on her phone. Sleepless nights, nervewracking interviews, the suffocating possibility of all-encompassing failure...these were the moments that made it all _worth_ it.

***

It's a busy day, to say the least.

The Washington-Canadian artificial limb research facility Abernathy Institute has reached out to her for a potential partnership with her work in rechargeable hearts. They're not unlike BPM Plus in both size and extreme specialization, delivering some seriously high-concept developments at international trade shows. Amelia calls her a mad scientist over cereal when she gets the call that morning, which is an _impossible_ comment to rebuke at this point.

"I want an artificial intelligence puppy. PUPPAI." Amelia decides, sounding out the acronym as carefully as she can around a mouthful of Cheerios. Meredith chortles over her coffee.

"Have it sing jukebox when you want it stop barking?"

"It wouldn't _start_ barking." She corrects. "Is the thing."

In-between debating the estimated length of time from virtual intelligence to true artificial intelligence she gets a text on her phone: Jackson is officially discharged, and she's never so firmly believed in magic in her entire _life_.

_mind if i come over? i have cookies, Jackson, 8:12 a.m._

_a man after my own heart, Maggie, 8:14 a.m._

He visits the sisterhouse later that night, looking tired with a bag of his things slung over one shoulder. Not without a gift for the kids, too, because he still steps around the space with the air of someone who's an acquaintance and not a long-time member of the Grey-Sloan family, but...that's how it goes. She'd be lying if the pain wasn't still just a _little_ fresh, despite just how long and dizzying the past five months have been. Just the other night she dreamt that he left her again, abandoning her in a foggy downtown strip, and upon waking it was all she could do not to start crying.

"Harriet said she misses you." He says when he pulls back from their hug, one of those lingering ones on the front steps that makes her heart tie itself into knots. "Think we can set up a playdate here sometime this month? It's been too long since I was able to take her out for more than a few hours..."

"Not at all." Maggie runs her hands along his shirt happily, savoring the warmth pulsing through her fingertips. He's _back_. He's back for good. "I'll check our calendar." She fists her hand in his collar and tugs him inside. "Now _get in here_."

Jackson chuckles.

"Yes, ma'am."

Amelia waves a hand from where she's hunched at the table and digging into the last of the bread pudding. Meredith looks up from her phone and tells him he's not dressed for the weather at all. Jackson responds that she'd notice spring around the corner if she looked up from her phone for more than five seconds. Maggie tries her hardest not to laugh all the while. She never would've though it possible, _feeling_ like this. It's like she's taken a drug, something that sparks every last sense into a blazing fire.

"I was in prison for a few months. _Spare_ me if I'm out of the loop." Meredith sighs, looking back down at her phone pointedly. Jackson flings one thumb over his shoulder.

"The window is _right_ there."

Everything is magnified, like biting into a weed cookie (but without the ongoing panic attack and the upper-body numbness). His composed-and-calm mannerisms, the soft almost-lisp of his voice. The way he crosses his arms and leans in a little when he's got something funny to say. More than once Jackson raises his eyebrows when he catches her staring, but he never says anything about it. He stares, too. Like he can't believe she's there, or that he's here. He does the dishes again, wipes up the counters, even, and nobody comments on it.

Baby steps.

When dinner wraps up and he goes to take a late shower she's practically _vibrating_ with the need to feel his presence shifting the air around her. Maggie waits until the water's on, then slips out of her clothes and tugs her hair out of its ponytail. Jackson is hardly surprised when she pulls back the shower curtain.

"...Hey."

It takes a little longer than usual for them both to clean themselves off properly. She gives him a little space to put himself together in front of the bathroom mirror, at least. The bed needs to be made and it doesn't hurt to turn on the oil diffuser to get a little extra jasmine in the room.

"Mm, that smells good."

Jackson walks out wearing her BPM Plus sweatshirt over his briefs, a leftover slice of dampness defining the cords of his neck. Maggie has no idea how hard she's staring until his smile fades.

"...Oh. Sorry, I just put my clothes in the wash..." Jackson starts, reaching down and starting to roll it off, revealing a lovely peek at his stomach she'd be _all_ too happy to see more of. She waves her hands hastily.

"No, no. It's fine! Just...never seen you wear my clothes before." She clasps her hands behind her back and tilts her head. "It's a good look."

They're both too exhausted for sex, but that's fine. _More_ than fine. He's _here_. Curled at her side with his arm slung around her shoulders, fingers toying with one of her curls just like he used to. Maggie's toes curl when his nails slide along her scalp and start to scratch. If this is a dream, she doesn't want to wake up yet.

"...I missed you." She says, impulsively. Her throat catches a little. "I'm so glad you're here."

Jackson buries his face into her hair. Judging by how hard he grips her shoulder, he's feeling something similar.

"I missed you, too." He kisses her curls, again and again. " _God_ , I missed you."

"Where are you staying until you get your own place?"

She feels his sigh tickle her scalp.

"...With my mother. Just for a few days. I found a place near Capitol Hill that has a vacancy." Then he yawns, hard enough to make his jaw pop. "I'll show you this weekend."

She wakes up before he does. For a moment the day and night before feels just like a dream, not at all helped by the fact she was contacted by one of Canada's leading research facilities on artificial limb development. When she rolls over, though, she's grounded immediately at the sight of a handsome, scruffy face snoring ever so softly into the pillow. No blank space haunting the most bruised parts of her. No obligation pulling him nearly three hours away from Seattle. Miracle of miracles. He's been more tired than usual lately, but she's practically shaking with excitement, and can't help herself.

"Jackson...?" Maggie runs a thumb along his jawline. His eyelids flicker drowsily. "Good mooorning."

"Mmph."

Then he continues to lay there like a handsome lump on a log. Maybe a good smell will wake him up. Maggie considers. He's a _huge_ fan of breakfast food. Sabi bought Meredith a wafflemaker as a welcome back gift last time she visited. It's about time she gave it a test whirl.

"I'm thinkiiing...waffles and bacon?" She tries, tugging at his earlobe. "Side of orange juice?"

"...mm-hmm. Jus' a lil'moresleep." He mumbles. "Mmkay."

Maggie chuckles.

"Okay. Jus' a lil'."

"Thanks."

Then he's out, with the deep, shivering sigh of someone very, _very_ comfortable. Maggie sighs fondly and reaches down to run fingers through his curls. They're poking out again, healthy and thick, _just_ long enough she could probably boing one or two. She doesn't, though. She rubs his scalp, a careful drag of the balls of her fingertips up to his hairline and back again. Jackson shivers with pleasure, shoulders hunching with the goosebumps. He mumbles something else slurred and incoherent into the pillow, but he's deep asleep at her side with the sun gliding over his back, and that's pretty magical, too.

***

Catherine asks to see her later that week. She gets the unsteady feeling it's not a basic catch-up over brunch, and she's proven right sooner than she'd like.

"He's not talking to me."

The banana nutella french toast spread is incredible. She's never tasted bacon _quite_ like this, glazed with something or another that crunches sweetly between her teeth. It's still not enough to distract her from the bombshell of a statement set before her. A worried mother who's also one of the most suffocating influences of her dearest one's life. She knew this from the first time she met her in person and saw the way Jackson looked at her when he thought nobody was looking.

"Maybe...give him some space?" Maggie offers, mentally counting the amount of bites she'd need to postpone. Catherine doesn't hesitate.

"Richard said the same thing, and what has that done? Created a rift between me and my son. At the worst _possible_ time." Her eyes sharpen. "Has he...said anything to you?"

"No." She responds, and it's not a lie.

Jackson, for all that he was right calling out her _own_ vulnerability issues, didn't share much. He was just so darn good at smiling or waving away a deeper topic, when he wasn't going utterly silent and staring off into space. She knows enough, though. She's seen the pressure weighing on his shoulders. She's seen the shades of resentment that tinge his interactions or merest mentions of his family, padded out ever still with that relaxed, personable demeanor. She knows enough.

"Maggie..."

Catherine reaches out and takes her hand. It doesn't feel right. There's so much hurt in her gaze, yet the whole situation is off-kilter. A badly timed beat in an otherwise healthy heart.

"We're a family. If something is going on, I _need_ to know. I promise I won't tell him what we talked about here. Just...give me something to alleviate my worries. That all of my concerns are just in my head. My son lost his mind months ago and all I can think about is how much worse it could be if I don't _do_ something."

Maggie bites her lip, the sound of a family laughing behind her truly punctuating the miserable rock and a hard place she's found herself in. She wants to be sympathetic. It can't be easy to see a son have a full-blown meltdown, one that blows up _further_ on the news, no less. But this isn't right.

"I can't tell you what Jackson is or isn't thinking, or...is or _isn't_ doing because that's not my place."

"I just...want to know if he's all right."

"You _can_ know if he's all right. You can call him or visit at the hospital..." She holds up a hand when Catherine starts to speak. "-and _if_ he doesn't want to talk, though, you need to respect that. Just because he's your son doesn't mean your needs supersede his. I mean...don't you see that's the problem? The fact you're trying to get around his obvious _no_ by talking to me? That's, like, _the_ prime recipe for distrust, right there."

The nail has been hit firmly on the head, because the woman before her doesn't have an immediate answer. Is there one, with a situation as tangled up and difficult as this? Maggie stuffs her phone away and finishes the rest of her mimosa. She's sat through one awkward meal too many in her lifetime. She practices a little of what she preaches and politely excuses herself with a hefty tip for the waiter, much to Catherine's visible chagrin.

"Thank you for the brunch."

***

" _I'm scared._ "

There was always a downside to everyone. That's how gravity worked, and Jackson was feeling the dip that came with finally returning home.

" _Had an awful dream. Couldn't sleep afterwards. Just thinking about all the things I need to do, people I need to talk with, it's...ugh. My hands won't stop shaking. My eye won't stop twitching, either. My jaw...it's always my damn jaw._ "

Getting his medical license back wasn't going to be as simple as a round of applause. Not for him and all that he carried on his shoulders. Maggie cradles the phone against the crook of her neck and shoulder as she pours herself some sleepytime tea. Both to keep her awake long enough to help and to get her relaxing enough to get back to sleep.

" _I'm...ha._ " He says, before she's figured out the right thing and most honest thing to say. " _This shouldn't be such a big deal. I can do it. I know I can. I'm..._ "

"-scared." She finishes, softly. "It's okay to be scared."

" _I'm not good at being scared._ "

"No, you're not." She chuckles, shifting up her phone when it slips. "You're good at being thoughtful, though. You're thinking hard about doing this right, and that's fantastic."

" _Not as well as I could be._ " He says, uncharacteristically stubborn. " _Feel like I couldn't have done this without you. Hell...when I ran into you at the parking lot? After...what happened? You...I...I never thanked you for that. I was scared then, too. You got me out of there, even though you didn't have to. You were my hero that day._ "

Maggie blows on her tea, then gives it a tentative sip. The windchimes outside kick up a little. A storm was on its way in a day or two.

"...I know you have to square up against a brain that's always trying to make things harder than they need to be, but I'm going to tell you, anyway. What you're struggling with isn't a sign you're bad at what you do, but that you're a _good man_ , Jackson. You're good at so _many_ things. Good at being patient. Being reasonable. Being hard-working and refusing to give up, even when the odds are against you." She closes her eyes. "You've got so much to look forward to. Your spray-on skin research. Oh, the semi-translucent artificial skin flaps for rechargeable hearts? You really are something else. You're _my_ superhero."

He's silent for a minute or two. Long enough for the wind outside to slow down.

" _...And you're good at buttering me up._ " She hears a sniffle, then a self-conscious chuckle. " _Sorry. Been pretty weepy lately. Therapist said it's the aftermath of too many years bottling things up..._ "

Maggie takes another sip, as best as she can while smiling.

"Well. You're good at crying, too."

***

Everything is in full swing. Maggie calls Sabi over to help Jackson usher in his new apartment. The woman is downright _thrilled_ at the prospect of doing ordinary things.

" _Get me out of here_." She all but begs. "I've read the same five magazines front-to-back and they keep forgetting to get me more."

It's a Saturday afternoon, which means everyone is out and about getting their weekly shopping done. It's hard not to get caught up in the mild festivities of a sunny weekend, with the weather shining bright and nature starting to show its first bloom. Best of all: Sabi's health is _finally_ starting to bounce back in more than just theory. She's put on a little weight and doesn't seem quite so tired, though she also doesn't walk quite as fast as everyone else. Maggie slows down to keep pace as they browse the home furnishings aisle, holding up potential gifts and rating them on scales of one to five.

"Three." Sabi declares, bobbing a hand from side-to-side. "The glass part is cute, but I have _no_ idea what the legs are doing. Shelf it."

She doesn't know how right she is. Jackson kept a lot of the color of his place to paintings or plants. This piece would look more fitting in elderly cat lady's attic. Why did she even pick it up?

"How does Meredith like the wafflemaker?" Sabi asks, plucking a little ornate wall decal off the rack and tilting it in the light.

"She _loves_ it. The kids only want to eat waffles for breakfast now."

Her cousin is visibly cheered by that, chest puffing up with pride. Maggie spares a moment to consider, after _all_ her worrying about meeting a side of her family, she hadn't thought what Sabi would feel about the Grey household. A little more browsing and it's clear her iffy health is starting to peter out, her eyes flickering and shoulders slumping.

"What other kinds of decorations does he like? I mean, not that I'll probably get anything he doesn't already have, with that man's budget..." Sabi pauses, then casts a keen look over her shoulder. "You know, I forgot to ask what it's like being in a relationship with a millionaire medical celebrity."

"One, he's not _technically_ a millionaire." Maggie corrects (or tries to). "He has, like, assets and whatnot from his family, but makes the same six-figures other surgeons do at the hospital. Then he donated his big twenty million from the Harper Avery scandal to medical research-"

"So...a millionaire."

Maggie sighs her surrender. Sabi gives her an affectionate nudge.

"Whatever. I'll just get him a plant he'll probably throw out in a week."

"He really likes plants, actually. He's nuts about nature."

Jackson just _talking_ about camping was like watching a kid in a candy store. A nature fanatic to the core, so much so the camping trip was the straw that broke the camel's back. Maggie shakes the thought with little effort. No...it was just bad timing with a bad brain already showing its weak spots. She wants to give that hobby another shot. Maybe. Closer to a campsite where there was still wi-fi and a working restroom. ...Double maybe. Sabi peeks over at her basket as they walk up to the register.

"Wait, you're not getting anything?"

"I already did, actually. Painting from a local artist."

The clouds are looking fat and squishy, but with enough sun to suggest a spring shower isn't quite in the cards. Maggie lets Sabi choose the songs on the radio on the way to Capitol Hill.

"You thinking of moving in with him?" Sabi asks, settling on Aerosmith and humming along. Maggie's chest grows hot. It's not uncomfortable.

"Um...not yet, actually. He told me he needs to practice living on his own first. He's really determined not to burden me with all he's gone through."

It doesn't sound great. Not with what Sabi knows. It's wonderful, though, for a man as emotionally impulsive as Jackson Avery. Her thoughts drift back to her blue room. That one draining day where they'd held each other's hands and he'd asked her to move in with him to savor every moment...

"I'm having a _seriously_ hard time believing this is the same guy who posted about freedom on his Instagram."

Maggie snorts and double-checks her texts to make sure she has the right address, then pulls into the parking lot.

"Mental illness is funny that way."

It's a little smaller than his last place, she can already tell once she gets out of the car, but everything else is more or less what she'd expect from someone in his price bracket. Sabi frowns thoughtfully as she observes the finely aged brick building and the ivy running down its walls, no mind reader necessary to know what _she's_ thinking. Kool And The Gang greet their ears when the door opens. Jackson's smile is soft, for her...only for him to immediately tense at the sight of Sabi. It's so awkward she could hold it up to Schmitt's worst moments and fail the spot the difference test.

"...Hey." He says, a second too late, bobbing his head in a nod and sliding his hands into his pockets. "Just setting everything up. Come in."

Phew. It's pretty messy. He looks pretty weary, picking up a box, then nudging another to the side with his foot. Moving was never all that fun, even _with_ help, but...something about this weariness doesn't quite feel the same. She's moved more than a few times in her life, from her father in Boston to her mother in Hawaii and back again. Back-and-forth between her college dorm days and figuring out her new stomping grounds in Seattle. Maggie sighs inwardly. Still a martyr, trying to feign some sort of supernatural independence when he didn't need to.

"I got you something." She says, holding out her painting. Sabi holds up her box.

"Same. Warning, it's not as cool as hers."

Jackson half-smiles at that. A crooked little bit of acceptance that's not quite as wide and happy as she'd like, but far better than the wilted man a minute ago.

"It's the thought that counts. Thank you." He takes the gifts and blinks. "Oh. Actually, these are _perfect..._ "

A spark of life flashes in his eyes. Holding both gifts carefully Jackson drifts back-and-forth throughout the half-finished living room, assessing the space anew with slow tilts to his head. He eventually chooses the area above the television for the painting, reaching into one of the hundreds of moving boxes for nails and a hammer. Maggie's heart swells sweetly. That's somewhere he'll see it all the time, with his love for sports and late-night movies. The plant is then set on the bookshelf by a meditation self-help book and a thick novel.

"I'd say make yourself comfortable, but that's a stretch." Jackson chuckles, rubbing his hairline and stepping back to observe it properly. Sabi waves a polite hand.

"You're fine. We weren't expecting the place to look quite...like a palace...yet..."

Then she blinks, slowly, and sways in place. Maggie immediately reaches out for her.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just...light-headed."

Jackson's always been incredibly keen. Maggie's hardly said two words his direction before he's off pouring a glass of water and ushering her cousin to the sofa, brushing off an empty moving box as he goes. Jackson rolls up a spare blanket and puts it behind her shoulders (he never liked throw pillows).

"You hungry? I can make something." He offers. Sabi blinks, a touch dizzily and clearly unsure how to respond to all this sudden care.

"O-Oh, you don't have to..."

"I didn't ask if I had to." He says, with a mild chuckle. "I asked if you were hungry." He points. "Drink that. Stay off your feet. I'll be right back."

Sabi shoots her a look both confused _and_ pleasantly surprised, which Maggie returns with a knowing smile. She's going to have to get used to having a family filled with doctors. Jackson curls a finger around hers, then, and she lets him tug her over to the kitchen after a reluctant second (just to keep him from getting too comfortable teasing). He's already stocked on food, his refrigerator looking much closer to a grocery aisle at an organic foodstuffs store.

" _So..._ how good are you at grilled cheese pesto?" He asks, pulling out sourdough and a big, beautiful block of what looks to be pepper jack cheese.

"Good timing, I actually _minored_ in it." She takes the white onion and whole tomato, pulling out his cutting board. "Head of cardio and master of pesto."

"Thank god. I was afraid I'd have to phone a friend."

Maggie savors the easy peace that settles between them as they grill the sandwiches and chop up the salad. This early self-care ritual was already doing quite well. Jackson bobs his head to The Gap Band, humming under his breath and always finding an excuse to brush close against her side. She sneaks kisses when he least expects it, but he always seems to, meeting her halfway more than once over the grilling onions.

Sabi is quite comfortable when they bring out plates of hot food a half hour later, curled under his throw blanket and looking close to a nap.

"I feel like a princess."

***

The entire hospital throws a welcome back party for Jackson. She would know: she helped plan it.

It'd been a pretty thorough debate between her and Richard on whether or not it'd be a good idea in the first place. Jackson's months of therapy have been holding strong, but he still wasn't a man who liked to show weakness, much less failure. A welcome back party would be a big fat arrow pointing to exactly that. Richard was careful to tell her that, at the same time, it was also a sign that people cared about him. Missed him. He'd also stressed, with his grey eyebrows raised high, that Jackson was going to have to face up to the reality of working at a hospital he lost his mind at.

They'd weighed their options, considered their schedules and eventually came up with a plan. It wasn't easy getting everyone to coordinate their lunch break -- Amelia wasn't able to come with a last-minute consult -- but perfection was the enemy of greatness, anyway.

" _Welcome back, Jackson!_ "

Everyone holds up their party poppers and sends them off in succession (save for Schmitt, who struggles and fails to get his to work). Maggie spares him a sympathetic thought. Second party of the month and she's gotten pretty good at this part. Jackson blinks owlishly in the doorway, hand lingering on the doorknob. He's fresh off of a meeting, still in his three-piece suit and a beige folder in his hand. No doubt he came to the boardroom expecting another analysis, rather than rainbow streamers and a hasty sign in whiteboard marker welcoming him to his second home.

"...Oh." The man puts on a slow, nervous smile. He slowly shuts the door behind him. "Wow."

Maggie feels the first curl of doubt in her chest. He looks more freaked out than flattered. Jackson seems to be gathering himself up, taking in a deep breath and visibly straightening...only to sputter when a flurry of confetti goes _right_ in his face. Schmitt gasps, mortified.

"...Oh my god. I'm _so_ sorry."

Jackson blinks...then chuckles, patting himself off with one hand. The room dissolves into laughter (and Nico very gently removing the now-defunct party popper from Schmitt's hands).

"That's _one_ way to pop a cherry."

Bailey snorts, then hastily tries to pretend she didn't. She never thought she'd say this, but _bless_ Schmitt's permanent awkwardness. It was the icebreaker he needed; Jackson drifts over to the table, accepting a pat on the back from Webber, a shake of the arm from Bailey. Maggie promptly starts slicing up the cake, Nico filling in the gap to pour everyone the cold brew that came with it. With any luck she'll _bleed_ coffee one of these days. It's not very long at all until her boyfriend drifts on over to her, as inevitable a gravity as he always is.

"Hey."

Maggie fixes his collar, just to see him smile, then slices him a piece of cake.

"Hey, yourself. They made this coffee cake with their own coffee from the roastery." She adds, pouring his drink. "They were nice enough to bake a second one. _Paid_ , of course, as much as they tried to do it for free. They also provided the cold brew."

"It's delicious." He mumbles around a mouthful, staring at his plate with a look that suggests he skipped breakfast. "Caffeine?"

"Decaf." She says with a wince, and Jackson affects a long-suffering sigh. "You rely on it too much, anyway. Have you been getting any sleep?"

"Not a _wink_." He admits, taking another too-large bite he can barely speak around and rolling his fork in the air. "It'll pass. What about you?"

If _that's_ what he wants to do today. Maggie stuffs a big slice of cake into her mouth and pretends she can't speak. Jackson raises his eyebrows, a twinkle in his eye. He leans against her, just a little, and watches Bailey start up an impromptu dance with Webber. The easy smile on his face is the highlight of her day. Nah. Her week.

"Well. I can help you with that."

***

Not everything is a monumental interview or celebration. It's just as well, because the everyday can be just as much effort.

Catherine shows up in the afternoon, and it's not a casual visit. Maggie catches a _very_ terse conversation between her and her son while checking in with the receptionist on a late patient. Too far away to hear anything, but the scowl on Jackson's face and Catherine's failing attempts to move him somewhere else say plenty. He clues her in during lunch in the cafeteria, occasionally glancing at the open doorway in a subtle and depressing paranoia.

"She loves showing the hell up out of nowhere. Of _all_ days." He sighs, stabbing his fork into his salad with no intent of eating. "Telling me she's sorry when it's convenient, when I've made it clear I'm not about to bend over to her whims. All this time and I'm still right back where I started."

"I'm sorry. I told her not to just drop by if you didn't want to talk..." Maggie sighs...then _immediately_ regrets it at Jackson's look.

"Wait...you _knew_ she was coming?"

"No! She invited me to brunch to talk and..." Oh, this is bad. He's looking downright pissed now. "Jackson, wait. It was last week, she wanted to check in on you, but I _told_ her to just talk to you, but only if you were up to it..."

" _Great._ "

There's no time to cook up an apology or explain herself further. Jackson is grinding his teeth and scowling down at his pager, citing a consultation he needs to get to. Maggie watches his retreating back with a sore, sinking heart. It's just one more thing on the pile she doesn't need.

The merge of Pac North and Grey-Sloan hasn't been entirely smooth. A hospital that actually had a concrete procedure in place (and standards) has taken some of the new nurses off-guard, leading to small misunderstandings that quickly spiral into _hours_ of wasted time over the course of the day. Webber has also gone through with the door change, which means she's just as likely to run into construction workers patching the doors as she is a confused intern. In-between her check-ups and drumming up interview notes into her phone she feels like a frayed wire, getting fuzzier with each new moment.

She's tempted to leave when she sees Jackson slouched in the empty lunchroom, but she doesn't.

"...Long day." She says, lamely. Jackson sighs with his entire body and drops his head back on the back of the sofa.

" _Too_ long."

She's still stung over his abrupt departure earlier. She also doesn't want to fight. She really, _really_ doesn't want to fight. Maggie resists the urge to tip-toe and walks up to his side of the couch, laying a hand on the armrest and studying the furrow on his brow, what she can see from where he's pinching the bridge of his nose.

"...I hear you. I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to get this merger off the ground with another interview on my head." She says, softly. Jackson peers at her tiredly through his fingers. "It's a short one, just dressing up for twenty minutes of questions, but I always overthink the best answers later. Doesn't help the last time I had a big speech I walked off stage. I clearly didn't think through this whole 'revolutionary new artificial body enhancements' thing..."

It's amazing how much has changed, and hasn't. Maggie trails off when Jackson stands up and places two gentle hands on her shoulders. Just like her Good Morning Seattle interview, where he grounded her with a bit of practicality before sending her off.

"Maggie. You're brilliant. You're beautiful. You're powerful. You'll do _great_. If I know anything about you, which at this point I know _quite_ a lot, it's that you're never content with a halfway effort. Even when you walked off stage you came through in the end and gave a girl her life back." Then he smiles his first real smile of the day, enough to make his eyes glitter at the corners. "Just speak from the heart."

Oh, geez. Maggie bites her lip.

"You know what...I'm not even mad at that."

Jackson leans his head back and snickers.

"Hey, I'm just trying to keep it real." He winds one of her curls around his finger, thoughtfully. "It's...it's just something that needs to be done. I know you'll get it done. If it _helps_..." He reaches up to tuck her hair behind one ear. "I've got an interview with Sun Health Services coming up. Need to do a little damage control of my own after being mobbed by paparazzi and the Avery Foundation losing a partner for 'image reasons'..."

Just that sentence alone has him looking bone weary. Jackson cradles a hand on the back of her neck, a stabilizing weight that slows down the world.

"If you knock it out of the park and dazzle everyone with your expertise, I'll be waiting. If you flub up a line or get another panic attack and bail in the middle of the podcast...I'll be waiting."

They're not out of the emotional woods yet. Maggie gives him a meaningful look. Jackson nods, immediately. Without another word she takes his hand and tugs him out of the room to slip down the hall. They let go when a nurse passes by, keeping their heads held high to affect the combined illusion of two doctors off to do doctor things. They have to go up a level and wander down several hallways as surreptitiously as possible before they find a spare room that isn't being worked on, but it's worth it.

"God, it's so _much_ being back. Everyone keeps looking at me like I'm a ticking time bomb about to go off-" Jackson mutters into her neck in-between nibbles, searching for his favorite spot right below her ear. "Nose modification consultation was the best part because the patient's family somehow hadn't heard of my blow up-"

"At least you had that-" Maggie gasps and gives his shoulder a light slap when he bites too hard. "That's so much pressure, this week is just rough all around-"

"I shouldn't have snapped at you-" He whispers, bowed head both contrite and interested as he suckles on her earlobe. "My mother thrives on unpredictability...couldn't have expected you to know-"

She accepts his apology faster than normal, because she's _tired_ of waiting, and they trail off into warm, messy silence somewhere in-between double-checking the door lock and slipping down their slacks. There's not enough time to take off all their clothes, as tired as she is of the day and would _love_ to shed off every last layer. The feel of his chest on her back is pure therapy. Then Jackson is digging his nails into her thighs and shifting her up, _just_ enough to position himself. This man is always so gentle, so thoughtful with every little blink and motion, that she forgets just how _strong_ he is-

-until he's steadying her in another way, sliding in and filling her and grinding his weight against her shoulderblades to keep her in that perfect position. It's not good to be against the door now, the doorframe has to be visible to anyone with eyes, but the tension is bleeding out of her with each new, hungry, _perfect_ push. She squirms. She _sighs_. The stress of the week blurs into breath and growing sweat, Jackson huffing goosebumps against the back of her neck like they're on even _less_ time.

" _Missed you_." She hears between his pants and the frenzied friction of their clothes. "Love you."

They've been saying this, again and again now that they're both in their second home, and it's like hearing it for the first time every time. It's good.

It's good.

***

The past always looks so funny in retrospect. Jackson invites her to a firework show funded by Seattle University to celebrate its renovation. Flashy in its most literal sense.

_Trying to end this month with a bang?, Maggie, 9:29 a.m._

_just trying to show how much you light my fire, Jackson, 9:30 a.m._

Amelia and Sabi help her pick out a new bikini at the mall, because her breasts decided to go up a cup size over the past year and she's _not_ about to have her top fly off in the middle of jumping off his boat. Maybe not. It was still on the cusp of spring and she's pretty sure the water would turn her into a popsicle on principle. The weather report is also threatening some spring showers, so she bought a beach cardigan, just to be fashionably safe. Jackson is practically bouncing when she arrives, that rare energy always running off with him on full display for their outdoor adventure.

"I _finally_ learned how to drive this damn thing. Let's take it for a spin and enjoy the view before the fireworks start." He leans forward to whisper in her ear, in his most practiced and seductive tone: "I also brought wiiine."

"A man after my own heart." Maggie kisses his nose, then pauses. "...Wait. You only _just_ learned how to drive this?"

It's a _stunning_ day. So perfect she wonders if he asked God to send a few extra sunrays their way. The clouds have parted enough to lend just enough warmth to the air, though she's not quite ready to take off her shawl. She'd crack a joke about praying for a few extra degrees, but there's a brilliant glow on Jackson's face she doesn't want to see go away yet. He steers the boat with the confidence of a pro, gazing off into the distance with a look caught between curious and disdainful.

"That family's steering _way_ too close to those rocks." He huffs. "Amateurs."

"Didn't you just say you only recently learned how to drive your-" Maggie starts. Jackson flaps a hand.

"Just let me have this one."

Maggie snorts and wordlessly makes her way over to the cooler. It's stuffed full of what he promised: cans of hard cider, light party beers and two _very_ pretty wine bottles. A rose or moscato, by the looks of one, and something darker that immediately makes her mouth water.

"Want a glass?"

"Yes, please."

They're _well_ out of the docking area now. The water is a brilliant blue, rocking them from side-to-side just gently enough not to turn her stomach. That said, she might go a little easy on the alcohol. Just in case. Maggie watches Jackson down his wineglass in two swigs, far too quickly to suggest it's the flavor he's addicted to. The gravity of something heavier settling between them. She slowly sits down, folds her legs together and does something she's not all that great at: being patient. Sips her wine, too, to look more casual than she feels.

A lot of things have grown between them. It seems her instinct has sharpened, because Jackson says, in what might be the _last_ thing she ever expected to hear:

"...I might quit being a surgeon."

Maggie blinks and chokes. Jackson glances down at her, eyebrows raised placidly.

"...Yeah, that's pretty much the reaction I was expecting." He's hardly offended, almost smiling as she wipes off her bikini top. "Careful. Death by merlot is not as fun as it sounds."

"Oof. No, I'm just surprised to hear that. That's all." She wipes at her mouth carefully. Maybe her top didn't fly off, but a wine stain was still pretty lousy. "Really?"

Jackson leans his elbows over the dashboard and wrings his hands together.

"...Yeah."

The confession is so heavy it's a wonder it doesn't sink the boat. She leans in a little, staring at him with all her might and trying to peel apart yet another layer of this mysterious man. Jackson Avery, deciding to shrug off so _much_ of what defined him and that big, famous, medical family of his. Jackson Avery, maybe Jackson...Fox? The Jackson she used to know would've closed up tighter than an industrial grade safe by now. Judging by the cautious slant to his gaze, carefully maintained away from her in a supposed appreciation of the view, he's considering it.

"It's a bad idea, isn't it?" He says, when she's silent a little too long. Maggie resists the urge to answer immediately. She considers, carefully, what she wants to know and what he needs to hear.

"...What changed your mind?" She asks, softly. It's the push he needs. Jackson rubs at his knuckles.

"It's...just a little thought I've had. Spent a few months just...stewing on it and picking it apart. Trying to make sure it's not the worst idea I've ever had." He shrugs and taps on the steering wheel. "Um. I've thought of...maybe going into programming. Dabbling in medical virtual reality or creating interactive stories to help train surgeons. I played a lot of videogames at the ward. Sculpted a lot, too. Helped me figure out I was just as capable at making things as I was at fixing things. I mean, I _make_ things for plastic surgery, nose sculpts and brow replacements and whatnot..."

He catches his ramble mid-syllable, shutting his mouth and shaking his head.

"I'd still be adjacent to medicine, I don't want to leave _entirely_ , just..." He shrugs, still not looking at her. A ray of light slides out of the cloud above, then, bending over his shoulders like a golden hand on his shoulder. "...quieter."

It's a fascinating thought. A good one. She thrived in controlled chaos, and so did he, honestly, but...he's also healing from the wounds of so many things. In and around that very hospital he's worked so hard to come back to.

"...That's _amazing_ , Jackson."

_Now_ he looks at her. A wary, yet hopeful light in his eyes cast in the shadow of the passing cloud above.

"Something that worried me about you... _has_ worried me about you...is how you..." It's so hard to say, with that yearning look in his eyes. Not unlike the way he looked at her all the way back in the parking lot with his hand torn up and his mind gone, like she's water and he needs to drink. "...you're just so _much_ , Jackson. You're so many amazing things and I want you to realize that potential, even when it's hard. When it's scary. When you're afraid you're going to let people down because it's not what you're _supposed_ to do."

It's clumsy. It's messy. It's apparently just right, because Jackson smiles in that way he only seems to do around her.

"Well. Your different therapy rooms inspired me, too. Visited them more than I realized back when I was full-time." Maggie's heart flutters at that. "I...I want to have more time to spend with my daughter. With my friends. ...With you." He takes in what sounds like his first deep breath in minutes. "I'm going to stay at Grey-Sloan for another year or two. Figure things out before I make the plunge."

It's a wise thing to do. He has to adjust to being out of the ward and back in his own life. His mother was going to be an entirely different (and far less forgiving) hurdle on his way to self-actualization. She starts to open her mouth and say something about that, to clue him in or prepare him or something...but shuts it. No. This was _their_ day. They can wrestle over this together a little later.

"I don't want to be selfish." He says, suddenly, the fear he must've been reigning back plain all over his face. "She's always going to have that cancer. She's getting older and is going to need help..."

"She _has_ help." Maggie reaches over to rub his thigh. "More than most people."

Jackson swallows and nods. That's not the end of it, she knows, but it's progress. A few more baby steps on a long journey.

He finds a place for them to float, then looses the anchor so they won't lose their spot. Maggie folds her arms on the ledge and watches him work with a curious weight in her chest. It was the beginning of an end, for him, with the start of something new just on the horizon. She pours him another inch of wine when he returns, and indulges in the sweet taste lingering on his tongue when he kisses her.

"Are fireworks...triggering at all?" She asks, when the thought hits her. Jackson cocks a mild eyebrow.

"No. Wouldn't have set this up if they were."

That's...right. Maggie winces a smile.

"Right. I just heard that's common-"

"No, no, it is." Jackson agrees, giving her shoulder an affectionate bump. "Especially for those who have PTSD from war. Heard Parker gets it pretty bad around the Fourth Of July. Mentioned it in passing when we were fixing a patient's knee. PTSD is both really specific and really general at the same time. It can come from anywhere, but it's drawn from our specific experiences. Like Alex and..."

"...elevators." She finishes. Jackson lays down on his back and stares up at her through the dying light.

"Yeah."

The sunlight turns his skin from brown to gold, then gold to amber. Shifting over his bare torso like a jewel under the water, impossibly rich and sweet. Jackson's ego has ached pretty hard this half-year, but he preens beneath her gaze now. He crosses his long legs languidly, mouth sloped in a peaceful, crooked half-smile. One hand drifts with a mind of its own to rub lazy circles along her thighs. A gull calls out in the air, one of the few still out at this sleepy hour. She wants to take a photo of him like this, but she can't look away.

"At least I've got-" He starts to say, moving his hand up her thigh-

-and the first firework of the evening goes off with a _bang_ , a shock of red against the pink and purple sky. They both jump.

" _Holy!_ " Maggie gasps. "Sorry, I didn't hear you-"

"I said-"

Another pop. Maggie gasps again, this time with delight, and sits up. She feels more than hears Jackson's resignation as he sits up with her, looking up at the rainbow delight starting to paint the sky. If she strains her ears she can hear the other boat, as well as the families on the shore, calling out in excitement. The whole city can probably see these. She fumbles out her phone and hastily adjusts the settings, then holds it up for a snapshot.

He, on the other hand, pours himself more wine. It's a little too loud to hear, not without screaming into each other's ears, but Jackson is nothing if not good at thinking outside the box. He starts to trace letters into her thigh as she adjusts her camera settings.

GOOD?

Maggie grins and writes a response on his stomach, enjoying the way it twitches beneath her fingertips.

VERY.

It might go down in history as one of the best future memories she's ever had. The firework show is a living painting, strewn above the city lights of Seattle in a breathtaking daydream she'll _never_ forget. There are fireworks that spin. Fireworks that spread and spread and spread like a blooming flower. The scatter-pop ones that _look_ pretty and also make her eardrums want to duck for cover. For minutes it goes on, before quieting down a little and leaving a thick, heavy grey in the air. No doubt stocking up for round two.

A thin streak of silver detaches itself from the scatter of stars to ease across the sky.

"Oh! What kind of firework is _that?_ "

She's seen quite a few interesting feats of science explode above her head today. Who knows what this one will turn into. Maggie shields her eyes in preparation for another blare of color, perhaps another ear shattering scatter. It doesn't come. Jackson is squinting hard, leaning forward a little for good measure.

"I think that's a shooting star." He nods. "Yeah. Make a wish."

"I already got _my_ wish."

He's not the only one that can be corny today. Jackson chuckles, returning her kiss and looking back to the sky. His expression slowly slackens with a growing realization.

"Huh. I...don't think that's a firework."

Maggie looks up at the streak, still moving strong. It gets bigger.

Brighter.

Closer.

"Jackson...?" Maggie whispers, right before everything bursts into white-

" _ **Get down!**_ "

An earthshattering _crack_ hits the air, followed by a rumble and rattle that sends the boat rocking violently. Everything, temporarily, goes white. She only realizes she's hit the deck when she's struggling to breathe, her face pressed into her boyfriend's neck. She realizes why a second later: Jackson is huddled over her protectively, as best he can craning his neck to see what the _hell_ just happened. Her ears must be ringing, because she opens her mouth and hears nothing but a vague, fuzzy crackle.

Maggie winces and stretches her jaw, urging a pop, then two. Then she can hear. His voice...and the _screaming_.

"-shit, _shit_ , it hit the rocks, they're in the water-" Jackson is saying, his horrified voice wavering in and out of her popping ears- "They're going to freeze-"

The rocks? The _water?_ Maggie stumbles to her feet, legs shaking so hard she has to hold onto the rail to keep from falling again. Where are they? She can hear, just barely, but it's so hard to see a thing. Just then, a firework flashes above her head, casting what seems like the entire ocean into a blaze of yellow and orange. There. The boat, or what's left of it, is sticking halfway out of the water, almost indiscernible from the dark crags. Another flash, and she can see the bodies of people bobbing in the frigid waters, splashing fruitlessly as they try to stay afloat.

"Can you drive closer?" She whips out her phone. "I'll call 911."

"I can try, I don't want to hit anyone." It goes pitch black again, but she can hear the shallow beat of his breath. "I can't go too close to that crag, either-"

Jackson turns on the lights, which illuminate a few feet ahead of them, at the very least. The waves are rolling with growing winds, though, and it's so hard to navigate the sudden flashes of clarity in-between vague blinks. Maggie hurries downstairs and shuts the door behind her, the sudden quiet as sharp as a clap. It's the strangest 911 call she's ever had to make, and hopefully not the last one.

"I can't risk getting closer." Jackson pants when she emerges back onto the deck. "Someone could go under and hit the motor. I could also crash us into those rocks and send us into the water, too."

Somehow, that's not even the worst part. Maggie's heart skips, horribly, at the sight of him. His shoes are off. There's a life vest in his hands. No. _No._

"Jackson...what are you doing?" She rushes to his side. "You're not thinking of going _in_ there?"

He pulls his arm through, then snaps a buckle in place. Double-checks the dashboard, then his other arm is through.

"I have to go in and help. Kids were on that boat."

"Jackson, the water is _freezing_. You could go into shock!"

Jackson doesn't look at her. He just ties on the vest tighter, then reaches over and turns on the boat lights to their brightest. A helpless, horrible punch of anger surges through her. Damn him! She just _had_ to go call him a superhero and inflate that omnipresent superego. Maggie kicks off her sandals.

"I'm going with you."

_Now_ he pauses.

"Maggie, no, I need you on the boat-"

"I don't even know how to drive this thing." She interjects, spotting another life vest in the open compartment by the beer cooler. "I'll be much more useful in the water."

"I swim in water like this _all_ the time when camping, it's nothing. You're another matter entirely-" He argues, reaching over as if to stop her. She pushes his arm away.

"You're not a one-man army, Jackson. I'm not letting you run into another crazy situation by yourself again!"

"Maggie, it's _dangerous-_ "

Maggie whirls around.

" _We're at our best when things are dangerous!_ "

Jackson goes still, eyes round.

"So let's do our duty as doctors and save some lives."

For a few fleeting moments he doesn't speak. A firework goes off behind him, a burst of blue that shutters his furious glare into a sharp black.

"...When you get tired..." He says. "... _get back on the boat_."

Then he's turning and rushing to the edge of the boat, and she's hot on his heels.

The water isn't cold. It's not even freezing. It's as if the air has been punched straight out of her _body_ , her limbs turning into stone that abruptly doesn't move like she needs it to. When her head emerges the wind lashes her hair to her face, her teeth stinging with the brunt of the frigid water. Maggie starts to claw her bangs from her eyes, then gives up the ghost and plunges back in, attempting her best front stroke to where the yelling is gradually, terrifyingly, starting to fade.

" _I'm coming!_ " She calls out, as best as she can entirely breathless. "Just hold on!"

Oh, no. There are so many children. Four? Five? They're floundering in the water, trying to huddle to each other, from what the next firework burst tells her. The moment she swims among them, raising her voice above the ruckus as high as she can, they start _clawing_ at her, begging for help through chattering teeth and splashing water. It's nothing like the chaos of an ER. She hardly knows where to even look first, much less what to do.

" _Our boat sank, our boat sank-_ " One young girl is saying, she can't be much older than Zola.

" _I'm scared-_ " Another cries, even younger by the shrillness of their voice and sobbing hysterically.

Maggie reaches through the water, reaching for a limb, _any_ limb.

"It's okay, I'm here to help! I'm a doctor, just grab my hand-" She takes one hand (like grabbing an ice cube) and gives them a firm tug to her side. "Good, good, now my other-"

Mercifully, they catch on quick. The two kids are clinging to her and it's all she can do to keep her head above water. An ominous rumble starts overhead; the inevitable change of those heavy clouds from earlier. A spring storm choosing the worst night to get started.

" _Hold onto me, okay?_ " She yells over the building wind. " _We're going to go to the boat_."

How many people can the boat hold before it capsizes? She doesn't even know. Maggie has to trust that the other children are holding on, because if she so much as glances back she'll waste precious time that could be spent getting out of this frigid water. Her legs are starting to feel detached from her body and every breath is a laborious gulp that rattles her lungs. The boat is only a few yards away, but it might as well be miles. Maggie kicks, and kicks, and kicks.

" _Almost there. Almost there. Almost there_."

She's so focused on moving she hardly realizes she passes by Jackson, swimming doggedly back toward the commotion. A sharp note of pride cuts through the cold. Burning building or rolling waves, nothing stopped him when lives were on the line.

"I'm coming, okay, I'm coming!"

The water is going from rough to impossible. She all but _slams_ into the side of the boat when she arrives, the children instead bumping into her side. The poor things are shaking so hard they can hardly grip the edge.

"J-J-Just...just c-c-climb on..." She gasps. "U-U-Up you g-g-go..."

One. Two. A third she didn't realize had grabbed on. The trail of children has held strong, as far as she can see in the failing light. The sky is becoming so murky with smoke it's turning into fog. Jackson pulls himself onto the boat bedraggled and shaking, a small child clinging to his back and an adult close behind him. She's beside herself with joy at the sight of him whole and close, but there are still one or two people in the water calling out. They're not done yet. She tries to move her hands and finds herself unable to, her fingers as stiff as claws. Her teeth chatter so hard they hurt.

"Maggie, what are you _doing?_ " Jackson cries when she slides back in the water. "Get back on the boat!"

She can't leave someone behind knowing she could do something. Jackson yells out something sharp, maybe exasperated, maybe worried, but she's already in the cold, muffled expanse of the sea, being swept along as easy as a piece of driftwood. If she's frozen stiff, she can be frozen stiff with the last survivors of the boat.

" _H-H-Hey! I'm c-c-coming, j-j-just wait_ -"

There's an older adult trying to make their way over. Maybe elderly, which would explain why they haven't gotten very far. She can help. She's so _close_. That's what she's thinking, yes, until she's closer to the capsized boat's shadow and she can barely move. Maggie gasps and pants, shuddering at the first sprinkle of rain from above. The water shoves her from side-to-side, water slapping the side of her face.

" _C-C-Can you...hear me..._ "

They yell something, but she can barely understand them. Everything is dark. Everything is numb. ...She can't do this. She has to get out.

" _Jackson-_ "

It's so cold. The life vest is making sure she doesn't go under, but her legs aren't moving, and everything is starting to feel...fuzzy. Her ears are going out again, or maybe it's the reduced blood flow that has the water going from cold to strangely warm. Jackson's voice stretches as if through a fog, shrill with fear and too far away.

"Maggie, hold on-"

It's too dark to hear him. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, _no_. This isn't good. She needs to move. She just _can't_. Her body has run off with her and left something limp and bedraggled in its wake.

" _Maggie!_ Maggie, can you hear me?!"

She thinks she calls out, but her mouth is filled with water not a second later and she's coughing and breathing in what she shouldn't and the world is so consistently, horribly dark. The fireworks have completely stopped, the only light the bleary yellow in the distance. How far away did she _swim?_ Maggie tries to call out again, but there's just more icy air and water. She looks up at a little pop of red among the stars. It's not a firework or another comet, but a signal flare. Sent out in a last-ditch effort to be seen amid the smoke.

" ** _Maggie!_** "

-then a springtime afternoon.

Clouds in the air and flowers in bloom.

Windchimes to her left and a warm, brown face to her right.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Maggie shifts from where she's sitting on the white porch swing to gape properly at her mother, stunning in a long pink dress and floral headscarf. The sun kisses orange over her neck and collar, jeweled bangles twinkling on her throat and wrists.

" _Mom_."

She throws herself into her arms, only remembering a moment later that she's sick, that might _hurt_ , but her mother only laughs, her hug filled with strength. Maggie only pulls back to look at the clouds above, dusted with gold and sending light rays heavy enough to be confused for curtains. The scent of flowers drifts on a breeze both salty and sweet. It's a Seattle born of a dream.

"Where'd the fireworks go?" She blinks, craning her neck around at the sound of birds. "The ocean?"

Her mother just smiles. Maggie takes her hand and holds it tight.

"...It's _beautiful_ here."

"It is. Eternal spring, as _far_ as the eye can see." She reaches over to brush a curl out of her eyes. "Oh, you look so happy."

"I am. I mean, I was. Something happened...something awful." Maggie looks down, a murky, cold memory itching at the edges of her mind. "Mom, I think...I made a mistake. A really bad one."

The world shifts with her mother's smile. The clouds blush and the flowers dusting the bushes stretch out their petals. It's a world crafted from love, down to the very last stitch.

"Well, from what I've seen, Jackson's gotten very good at forgiveness. You've gotten quite good at it yourself. One olive branch after another. That sweet girl forgave him, Malani, was it? Not just that, but was inspired to travel the world thanks to his influence. You tried to give Chris a chance to make amends, however much he's not yet ready to receive it." She strokes her hair, eyes warm with everything good. "There is so much love in your life, baby. I couldn't be happier."

Neither could she, honestly, and wasn't that something, to feel like this with the odds always so unpredictable? The windchimes twinkle again, as if laughing with them, or maybe it's the musical chime of birds again. She wants to tell her about her rechargeable hearts and the amazing patient she got to work with. She wants to tell her about reuniting with her cousin. If she does, though...if she decides to stay here and drift on the porch swing and catch petals in her hear...she won't be able to leave.

"I think...Jackson's looking for me."

Him, and so many, many others. Amelia. Meredith. Alex. Link. Jo. Zola. Bailey. Ellis. Harriet. Ben. Webber. Jade and her family. Her cousin and maybe even her uncle, if he wants to reach out again. Her future patients. There were so many waiting for her. So many she needed to _be_ with. Maggie looks out beyond the flowers to the rolling hills blurring into the clouds. The falling stars and the curtains of light, shaking with the weight of it all.

"I have to go." She buries her face into her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scents of jasmine and moroccan oil. "I miss you. I miss you _so much_. I want to stay. I do. But...they're waiting for me."

Her mother understands. She always understood her.

"Let's finish up that nail session later." Diane kisses her forehead, and that makes her start to fall, as slow as a petal. "Only when you're ready, baby."

She falls, slow and too fast-

"-she's awake, _she's awake!_ "

-she knows that voice, knows it so well-

"Here, help her up, _hurry-_ "

-and she's floating up into the air, though she can't feel much of everything, her body somehow buzzing and somehow numb. Then she's moving again, and she starts to struggle, but it's not the rolling waves she's at the mercy of. It's the firmness of a stretcher in a moving vehicle.

"...J-J-Jackson...?"

He's here. He's bawling. Tears roll down his cheeks to catch in his beard, his shoulders bobbing with the effort of trying to breathe and trying to speak, rubbing tingling, stinging warmth into her, again and again and again. That's so strange. He hated crying in front of others. Even in front of her it was a shaky, uneasy vulnerability that rattled him to his core, a failing he tried to hide even as he knew he didn't have to. That he didn't want to, anymore.

"...Jackson." Her syllables slur unevenly, her tongue a foreign, meaty weight being remote controlled by someone else. "H-Hey..."

The man just shakes his head, again and again and again. He's shivering so hard she can see it. He doesn't stop rubbing her hands, her forearms. Pins and needles are beginning to prod at her body, an odd tremble working its way through her lax muscles and remind her she's alive.

"You can't _do_ that." He sobs, as best he can with tears rolling down his face, or maybe it's water from the sea. "You can't _do that_. You _can't_. Never again. Never. Never. Never..."

Maggie watches him rattle and rasp, aches to pull him into her chest but can hardly do more than shiver. She's sorry. She should've left the water sooner. Maybe an apology will calm him down a little, because he's here and she's here and it's such a happy thing. She wants to move her arm. She tries. Her fingers graze his face, stubble and fading scars and tears, and it's a vague realization that she can feel things again.

"...I l-l-love you."

Jackson buries his face into her palm, and her love for him is a firework, so hot and tremendous it warms her frozen chest and leaves her undone.

"I love you, damn it, I _love_ you. You can't go yet, okay. You _can't_..."

Murmurs of comfort sift around them. Professional, understanding. The cadence of a medical location. An unfamiliar face leans into her swimming vision. It's an older woman she doesn't know wearing the standard vest of an ambulance worker and the frizzy ponytail of someone who's on a double shift.

"We found him giving you CPR. Sent out a signal flare, too. Might've been a closer shave, otherwise. Lucky you having a boyfriend who's a doctor." She says, kindly.

More than than that. Someday, she's going to marry this man.

Then the ambulance stops. A lot of voices flood in. A lot of shuffling and a cold rush of wind and her dearest one whispering his presence, a warm hand resting on her shoulder like an angel and so very unlike that awful ambulance ride out of the forest a long, long, long time ago.

***

It was, and is, all a lot of floating.

She floats out of the swirling lights into a soft, hazy white that she recognizes. Voices murmur to her, a familiar music she smiles at, but isn't quite sure she responds to. She's much warmer now. Still numb, but warmer. She's placed in a cloud, likely the same one she's been floating on since Jade's artificial heart beat for the first time and Jackson popped up in the gallery. Jackson's here, now. Still at her side. He's always there, one way or another. She thinks she hears Amelia, maybe hears Bailey, and she wants to say hello, but she's so tired. So _tired_...

_You're okay, Maggie. You're okay._

Aches and pains. Pain and aches. She's always loved the sound of his voice. So soft and slow, like the sound of a car driving in the far distance.

_Hey. Hey, how are you feeling?_

She's not cold anymore. She's hot. _Horribly_ so, and her stomach hurts and her head hurts and everything hurts. She's scared. She's never felt this sick before, so wretchedly awful and so spinny and so-

_Shh. Shh. You're okay. Let's cool you down a little. How's this feel?_

A spot of blissful cool kisses her forehead, and she falls even more blissfully away. Somewhere at night (it has to be, because the lights are off and all she can see is the glow of monitors) she wakes up just long enough to see shadows in her doorway. She doesn't need further details to know it's Amelia, Meredith and Jackson. Her hackles sluggishly raise at the terse undercurrents of their voices, thinks maybe they're blaming him or something, until she remembers all that's happened. She falls back asleep right as they embrace each other, something that makes much more sense.

She dreams of a golden sky. She dreams of a white porch swing, empty and needing a friend. She dreams of...

"...Jackson."

"Maggie?"

It's too bright for her to open her eyes, but something shifts beside her and crinkles the bed. Hospital bed. It's a hospital bed. Maggie's eyelids flutter. She squints, blinks, gradually chewing away at the itchy shadows in her vision. Monitor. Door. Jackson. Hunched next to the bed and tapping something into his phone. She watches him scratch at his jaw, fiercely, then rub at his red, swollen eyes, making a sound caught somewhere between a chuckle and something more rusty and animal-like she's never heard before. Oh, he's stressed out. She should say something.

"...I'm really hungry." She croaks. Jackson finally looks at her, eyes glittering with an unspeakable joy, and in spite of it all, she's never been happier to think of the ocean.

"Good. That's good. I'll get a nurse up right away."

He taps something else into his phone, then sets it down and slumps in his chair, kissing her wrist, then her knuckles, then in and around her palm. It's the best thing ever, albiet still a little strange, seeing as she has no idea how she got here. How long have they both been in this room? He looks _exhausted_ , which is probably nothing on how she looks. It's a good thing she's so tired, because she hates the idea of smelling like three days of bedrest sweat.

"Five days." He corrects. Oh. She spoke out loud. "You got a really bad fever hours after we returned to the hospital. It was touch-and-go for the first two days, just trying to keep pneumonia and shock at bay. You kept talking in your sleep and couldn't keep anything down besides water..."

"Sleeptalking...?" Maggie blinks, blearily. "What did I say?"

Jackson kisses her knuckles again, lingering on each one as if counting.

"Lots of things. Flowers. Cheese. Apparently you were falling, a lot." He nuzzles hr nose into her palm. "What did you dream about?"

"My...mother." If she closes her eyes again she's sure she could go right back to that porch swing, but she doesn't. Not when she worked so hard to get used to the bright light. "We...talked. About life. About forgiveness. Lots of stuff. Your patient going on a huge world trip and Alex becoming chief. I remember it all so clearly..."

She doesn't have enough energy to parse all the emotions that flicker across Jackson's face. Surprise. Confusion. Concern.

"That's...a lot." He frowns off into the corner. "Don't think I told you about that..."

Her memory isn't exactly the best right now, either, and she's more than happy to let it slide. A thought hits her square in the chest.

"Did you...give me CPR?"

"Yeah. You went into cardiac arrest."

"Did I cough water into your face?"

Jackson's expression suggests he's more than a little taken aback by her priorities.

"A little. You swallowed some when you passed out, I think. Not as much as you would've without a life jacket."

"Oh. That's so _gross_." Then it hits her. Maggie sits straight up. "The...the _family_. The kids. The boat!"

"Woah, woah, it's okay. We got them." He assures, quickly. He starts to push her back down, but she needs no help, flopping bonelessly into the sheets. "All of them. It was touch and go there, too. Youngest kid is in critical care, also with pneumonia, but she's expected to pull through."

Maggie blows a sigh of relief and closes her eyes. Oh, thank _everything_ that is good and right with the world. Jackson chuckles and nuzzles at the sensitive skin of her wrist, but the smile doesn't stick. God, he looks so...pale. _Again_. Awful memories rise up at that, of him falling into the grass and throwing up into a trash can. The man startles visible when Maggie grips his hand with all the strength she has.

"Hey...hey, have you eaten?"

Jackson blinks once, then twice. He shakes his head, wonderingly.

"Maggie, you're in a _hospital bed_. I should be asking _you_ how you feel."

"You already did, though." She rubs his knuckles right back. "Eat with me."

Right on time the door opens. The nurse, one of the previous Pac-North members, has her food ready to go: what looks like a simple broth mixture with apple slices. She hands Jackson a bag of chips and an orange with a pointed gaze.

"You know he wouldn't even visit the vending machine down the hall?" She says in what is very clearly a rhetorical question. "It's a wonder he even left to go to the bathroom."

"You can survive up to a week without food, you know." Jackson mutters, taking the food with a wordless nod and getting to nibbling. His eyes never leave her, hardly blinking, as if doing so would have her fading away before him.

The next few minutes are slow and peaceful. Jackson tells her that Zola and Jade visited her bedside the other day, which she feels awful for not being awake for, then shares a story about Schmitt and Nico's oddball patient with the infected, self-applied DIY jaguar spot tattoos. It's pretty funny (and entirely gross), though even laughing completely saps her. Soon she barely has enough energy to lift her arm, much less feed herself. She's got enough energy to cry, though, eyes heating up when Jackson scooches closer to spoon the rest into her mouth.

Nausea tickles, but only for a few minutes. Sleep drapes her in a thick blanket, softer than a fever and heavier than the sea. The last thing she remembers seeing before falling asleep is Jackson curling his face into the crook of his elbow in an attempt to get comfortable on the edge of the bed.

***

The story of Seattle's meteorite is all over the news for a straight week. Considering how fast modern news circuits move, that's pretty impressive.

It's nicknamed the Seattle Firework for its bright flash and timely drop. She's watched the blurry cell video a tourist took at least a hundred and fifty times, trying to put together that she and Jackson were _right there_. Half the hospital asks her about it during check-ups or visits. She's probably told a hundred and fifty different variants of the same story by now, but she'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy it. The fact it has such a happy ending, when so _many_ everyday tales end tragically, is a miracle.

A reporter visited the hospital looking for a scoop, but is turned away by Webber. It's just as well, since she's already got enough interviews on her mind when she's not feeling stir-crazy and understimulated. Besides. If she has to endure _one_ more joke about beating Amelia's 'bedridden Olympics', she's going to jump out the window. Sabi visited a few days prior, once she was out of the fever stage and still in the exhausted recovery stage. No wonder her cousin was going crazy before getting discharged. Being stuck in a hospital bed for days on end _sucks_.

"Now it's my turn to bring you magazines." She said with a grin, spreading out her magazines and crosswords on the bed for their next hour and a half. "Also, it's mac and cheese Thursday. Snuck you some."

She's not the only one. Meredith drops by whenever she can, even if it's just to lean in the doorway with a cup of yogurt and rattle off the latest gossip. Helm, Schmitt and Nico swing by on their lunch to spend time with her, which is so sweet she has to pretend she's having a spring allergy attack in the middle of Scrabble. Alex drops by to give her a back rub, just because, and Link brings her the Switch for a few rounds of Mario Kart. Sometimes she loves it here so much she can't stand it, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Still. Being stuck in a hospital room, even in her second home at Grey-Sloan filled with family and friends, is a _righteous_ hell. Teddy checks in on her when she's sure she's losing her mind.

"You should get some exercise. Give those muscles something to do before they atrophy." She suggests after updating her chart, the best thing Maggie's heard all day.

Getting dressed is a slower and clumsier endeavor than she would like. Her hair is a crackly and matted mess, not at _all_ happy about her lack of headscarf, and it's all she can do to pull it into a respectable bun. A message on her phone tells her exactly where to go first.

" _Hey._ "

"Hey, yourself."

Jackson has clearly gotten comfortable with the habit of grooming again. He's wearing an olive satin jacket and a new pair of sneakers, beard freshly trimmed and the smile on his face is brighter than the sun outside. For a stupid second she feels awful she can't dazzle him with more than a borrowed sweater and jeans, but he stares at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen... _and_. He then proceeds to spend a good minute and a _half_ fussing over her choice of a thin cardigan on a windy day, which she allows without complaint because he kind of (literally) saved her life.

"What do you want to do? Anything you want." He swings her hands in hers, side-to-side, a boyish flavor she remembers from their dating days. "We could go to a cafe, we could visit Pike's Market, we could sit in the grass and count the clouds..."

A fresh, warm breeze passes through, bringing with it the scent of pollen and coffee from the tired hospital crew. Maggie takes in a deep, _deep_ breath.

"I want to read the latest medical magazines and talk about as many advances in technology as possible. Go on a jog downtown. Visit the aquarium, then Pike's Market for coffee. But for now...let's go on a walk." She squeezes his hands. "The day's gorgeous."

Jackson grins. He holds out his elbow for her to take. Maggie loops her arm in his.

"After you."

***

Love should arrive gentler than it does. That it arrives at all is a miracle in motion.

The two enjoying the breeze are blessed. He used to pull out his hair behind closed doors and shy away from glances. Now he laughs openly amid the company of beloved ones, softer than a practiced chortle and all the more heartfelt for it. She used to question her kindness, her instinct to love battered and bruised from the impartial hands of fate. Now she bumps into his shoulder, whispering flirtatious asides into his ear, and giggles like a girl when he showers sloppy kisses all over her face, uncaring of watchful eyes. She'd known he'd give her love, even as she knew it wouldn't always be gentle, and today it blooms beneath the sun.

She used to be called Diane, and now she's wind, watching Maggie nestle into Jackson's arms, their laughter twinkling like the breeze through the trees.

* * *

_Love is a miracle in motion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Last bit of soup, going once, going twice-**
> 
> Confession time: I was going to use "Signal Flare" by Snow Patrol as the song inspiration -- which it _was_ \-- but swapped it out at the last second. Mistake me not! I love a good title drop, even better when it's in a song, and the lyrics more than fit what the characters have been going through. But, _oh_...'Look After You' gets me weepy, every time. The sheer tenderness, the _yearning_ of finding love and wanting nothing more than to nurture it, paired with that piano and violin? Fuck me raw if that's not how I want this fic to end. On a spectacularly sweet and high note, albeit out-of-order in a non-linear series.
> 
> Fun fact: the sex scene between them here was supposed to be its own one-shot, but I've already got a lot on my plate as it is, so I squeezed it in. I have ideas for a last two-shot or three-shot fic as a sort of 'where are they now'-type fic, but whether or not I'll get to it is up in the air. Honestly...I need to take a break. I've done _so much_ writing these past few years and, despite the fact I've had an absolute blast, it's a lot of work on my already full plate. I've got plans to publish novels over the next few years (with any luck, anyway), so I'm going to have to divide my time between writing manuscripts and for-fun side stuff.
> 
> It's interesting, too, ending a fic _and_ taking a fanfiction hiatus around the same time I'm quitting the show I say _around_ the same time because my Hulu subscription hasn't ended yet. Ah, well. This fic has been such a cathartic, indulgent, _wonderful_ ride. I'm so happy I was able to share it and I'm really, seriously going to miss writing about these two (and I might've subconsciously put off finishing this last chapter just to drag it out longer). My heart hurts, but it's a good hurt. A healthy one.
> 
> Thank you all for reading.


	13. thrive they will

**Sequel:**

[thrive they will](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556225/chapters/67398637)


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